


Le Nouveau

by museaway



Category: Stonehenge Apocalypse (2010), Supernatural
Genre: Canon Universe, Case Fic, Crossover, Doppelganger, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Ghosts, Haunting, It was a robot head, Jealousy, M/M, Really spectacular interior design, Sexual Tension, The glory of Castiel's season 4 hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine haunting lands Dean in a historic hotel with his brother, a flirtatious Cas look-a-like, and a grouchy Angel of the Lord masquerading as his husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Guu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guu/gifts).



> In December, I had the pleasure of watching _Stonehenge Apocalypse_ , which is a hilaribad SyFy channel movie starring Misha Collins dressed as Dean Winchester. More specifically, it stars Misha's _eyes_. But the point is, it's laughably awful, Misha looks gorgeous in it, and I joked about writing an AU. Of course.
> 
> Guu saw. Guu encouraged. This is Guu's fault. 
> 
> Thanks to Sandra, Riley, and Heather for the beta.
> 
> This is set at an indeterminate time in season 10 and assumes that Cas still has borrowed grace and Dean is living with the Mark (though it doesn't appear in the story). If you haven't seen SA, a couple bits of dialogue might go over your head, but it isn't a prereq to reading this.

Dean can’t pinpoint the day when a haunted hotel stopped meriting more than an eyebrow raise. But when Sam bounds into the kitchen, inserting the laptop between Dean and a skin mag, wildly gesticulating at some fugly purple blog, his reaction is an uninspired, “Eh.”

“ _Eh_?” Sam echoes and jabs a finger at the first headline.

 _Massive EM burst in historic hotel in Nevada_.

Ten years ago, they would’ve raced to the Impala, but Dean merely exhales. He rearranges his hands so the magazine is positioned on top of the keyboard and resumes ogling.

“Dean,” Sam says, predictably making a grab for the magazine. Dean thwarts the attack by tucking it behind his back. “ _Dean_ ,” Sam repeats. “Will you just listen?”

“I’m trying to read,” he says with feigned innocence.

Sam sighs his disapproval and gives this barely there head shake, but he slides the laptop away. Dean spreads the magazine open to the centerfold and whistles, holding it up sideways.

“You know, it’s true what they say, Sammy,” Dean croons. “The articles in this rag are top-notch.”

“There isn’t any editorial content on that page,” Cas observes as he stomps into the kitchen, breezes past Dean, and parks himself in front of the coffee pot. Dean startles and cranes around in his chair, glaring daggers at Cas like that’ll alter his behavior. Cas refills his mug and drinks it black.

“I’ll have you know there are photo captions,” Dean refutes stubbornly. “And what have I told you about sneaking up on people? Don’t make me tie a damn bell on you.”

Cas scowls at him over the chipped rim. If looks could kill, Dean would be back on the rack: strung up, flayed open, ready-to-serve.

“If my presence here is a burden, I’ll go,” Cas drones.

“Shut up and drink your coffee.”

“So, Cas,” Sam chimes in. “You game for a road trip?”

“We just got back,” Cas answers.

“Life of a hunter,” Dean says. “You can’t handle it, no one’s forcing your ass in that car.”

“What is your preoccupation with asses?” Cas asks sourly, which makes Sam snicker into his coffee.

“You know what?” Dean snaps. “You can both blow me.”

Cas levels him with a knowing look.

“You have a preoccupation with that, as well.”

* * *

“Cas, I swear to god, you kick my seat one more time, I’m pulling this car over,” Dean grunts.

“I have no leg room,” Cas complains.

“Then kick Sam.”

“Thanks,” Sam says and smacks him across the front seat. Dean groans and turns up the volume until Sam winces and Cas appears to seethe, pulling at his tie and fidgeting with his sleeves.

“What the hell’s up with the diva routine?” Dean asks him. “You never used to complain about the backseat before.”

“I had my own _grace_ before,” Cas explains with irritation. “This body is uncomfortable. My legs are cramping.”

“Eat a banana,” Sam suggests and tosses one to him.

“Why?” Cas and Dean ask simultaneously, which results in twin glares.

“Potassium,” Sam offers. “It helps with muscle cramps.”

“Thanks, Martha,” Dean says.

He catches the reflection of Cas with the banana upside-down, pinching the tip.

“Jesus, can you do _anything_?” Dean gripes, jerking the car to the shoulder. He throws it into park and whips around, snatching the banana away before Cas destroys it. He snaps the stem, peels the skin away in four sections, and shoves it back in Cas’s hands.

“Here. Eat.”

“Thank you,” Cas says and brings it to his mouth, unaware it looks like a live goddamn peep show, the way his lips form an o-shape, slide forward a couple inches. He bites down with his eyes locked on Dean’s. “I’ve never understood how humans learned to peel bananas wrong.”

“Huh?”

“It’s more efficient if you split the tip.”

“Says who?”

“Monkeys,” Cas says.

“He’s right,” Sam chimes in. “I saw it on Animal Planet.”

“Do I look like a damn monkey to you?”

Cas just chews quietly. Dean frowns and swallows, swatting him on the head before he sits forward again.

“Do you want me to drive for a while?” Sam offers, mouth tight.

“Both of you,” Dean says, “just shut up. Alright? No one’s allowed to talk for the next hour.”

“That seems unreasonable,” Cas says around a mouthful of banana mush, which shouldn’t be hot and _isn’t hot_ and Dean can’t get out of this car fast enough.

“What?” he yelps when Sam shoots him an impatient stare, then points to the keys. “I’m driving,” Dean insists and shifts back into gear.

* * *

Half a day in a car with his brother and a sullen Angel of the Lord would cause anyone to down a bottle of Jack or two. Dean scours the landscape as they drive further and further from civilization, convinced that he could’ve filled the trunk with booze and it wouldn’t be enough to make these two assholes tolerable.

Sam is drumming the rhythm to a song that is _not_ the song Dean is listening to, and snapping his gum. Dean doesn’t even know where he got gum, but he whipped out a pack and handed a piece back to Cas, whose chewing is a noisy, wet distraction in the rearview mirror.

“Can you chew with your mouth closed? Please?” he asks when Cas begins to work the gum with his tongue, stretching it balloon-thin between his teeth, then snapping it.

Cas meets his eyes and blinks and looks out the window.

He snaps his gum again.

Sam snaps his.

“You two can bite me,” Dean says.

He’s answered by two more snaps.

“How much farther?” he asks Sam, who has thrown the map onto the seat between them, lifts a shoulder and blows a fat, pink bubble

“Alright,” Dean mutters. “I retract the no-talking rule.”

“About a half hour,” Sam reports.

“Thank god.”

“I need to urinate,” Cas announces, squirming.

“Since when?”

Cas sighs heavily.

“Right, the grace thing. Why didn’t you say something?” Dean scolds. Cas gives him a dark look. They’re in the middle of no-man’s-land, so he pulls over. Cas hurries out of the car and walks to a tall thatch of weeds. He fumbles with his zipper and tilts his head back when he starts, mouth parted in relief.

“Dean,” Sam says. Dean jerks his head back, reddening.

“So, are we staying at this place or what?” he asks, motioning to the printouts Sam brought along. He rubs his cheek like it will remove the incriminating blush.

“Make sense to,” Sam says. “It’ll give us the most observation time.”

Cas slips into the car and resumes his slouched, unhappy posture in the center of the backseat.

“All set?” Dean asks.

“Yes. Thank you,” Cas replies.

“How did you find this case, anyway?” Dean asks Sam as he pulls back onto the road.

“Podcast,” Sam says.

“Pod-what?”

“It’s like a radio show,” Sam explains, “but on the internet.”

“Nerd.”

“Says the resident Trekkie.”

“Hey,” Dean insists. “Everybody likes _Star Trek_.”

“I don’t like _Star Trek_ ,” Cas mutters.

“You’ve never seen it.”

“Metatron gave it to me,” he replies. “I don’t find it to be an accurate forecast of humanity’s future. Your species is too violent to achieve peace.”

“Okay, Spock.”

“And your technology isn’t advanced enough to achieve interplanetary travel within two-hundred years.”

“One more word,” Dean threatens, “and I’ll use the Vulcan death grip on you.”

“There’s no such thing,” says Cas, smug. “ _The Enterprise Incident_ , season three, episode four.”

“Nerds,” Sam declares. “Anyway, yeah, this blog I follow has a forum, and I found a guy who makes these podcasts about all the weird stuff he’s come across. Seems to have a preoccupation with EMFs. Says this is one of the biggest spikes he seen since 2009.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “He was tracking the apocalypse?”

“Looks like it. Anyway, he follows up on his findings; they’re almost all paranormal. I messaged him and he said he could use our help.”

“Why are we wasting our gas if this guy’s already checking it out?”

“He’s a scientist, Dean, not a hunter. He’s out of his league.”

“Whatever.” Dean covers a yawn.

* * *

It’s dusk when they finally pull into the hotel. Dean is starving, but there are no signs of a diner or even a convenience store. If Dean starves to death in a rundown desert hovel, he’s haunting Sam for the rest of his natural-born life.

“I brought granola bars,” Sam says, like he can read Dean’s mind.

A dinner of rabbit food. Well, that’s just peachy.

“Better than not eating,” Sam counsels when he notes the expression on Dean’s face.

Cas is catching flies on the back seat. Dean jerks his head toward him. “You think it’s normal that he’s sleeping so much?”

Sam shrugs and tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear. “Like he said, it’s because of the borrowed grace.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“If he weren’t okay, he’d say so,” Sam tells him. Dean’s mouth twitches. “He did last time,” Sam says, which Dean interprets to mean when he was sporting a pair of black eyes.

“How bad was it?”

“Does it matter?” Sam asks. “He’s okay for now. Let’s get inside before it gets dark.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters and unlocks the trunk. He shoulders his bag and Cas’s, tosses Sam’s to him, then opens the back door. With one knee resting on the seat, he leans over to shake Cas awake. Cas jerks upright, sniffing and blinking wildly before focusing on Dean. He smiles.

“Hello,” he murmurs.

“We’re here. I got your bag. C’mon.”

“Alright,” Cas agrees, stalling to wipe his eyes. He twists his knuckles into them. At the front of the car, Sam has his phone out, probably messaging that guy.

“Come on,” Dean offers again and holds out a hand. He means it as a gesture of impatience, but Cas latches onto it, maintaining a death grip from the gravel parking lot all the way to the hotel’s entrance. He yawns generously and stumbles every few feet. When Dean stops just outside the door, Cas bumps into him and stays crushed against his side.

“Are you carsick?” Dean asks.

Cas makes a noncommittal noise.

“Don’t puke on me,” Dean orders, and Cas nods into his shoulder. Because Cas has his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s not going to survive the night at this rate.

Sam jogs up to them and quirks his head. “Something you want to tell me?” he asks.

“He ain’t feeling well,” Dean rationalizes.

“Right,” Sam says. He pushes the door open, holds it wide enough for Cas and Dean to pass through without separating.

They’ve stayed in a lot of old hotels over the years, but this place is top-of-the-line: modern leather upholstery with plaid—plaid!—throw pillows, elegantly carved wooden tables, and built-in bookshelves on either side of a roaring fire. The woodwork extends floor to ceiling, painted a deep, glossy green—nearly the same color as the uniforms that indicate employees. They quietly traverse the lobby. Beside the door, the bellhop wears a hat with a gold chinstrap. Dean gets a tighter hold on his bag and refuses the offered luggage cart.

Something smells delicious. The grumbling in his stomach increases tenfold.

They shuffle up to the front desk, which is being manned—womaned?—by a twenty-something blonde with a fixed, plastic smile.

“Good evening,” she says. Her tone is polite. “Welcome to Le Nouveau. Checking in?”

“Nah, we just want to use your bathroom,” Dean replies, nabbing a matchbox from a dish on the counter. It has a fancy looking “n” on the jacket. He slips it in Cas’s pocket and grins. The clerk’s smile doesn’t falter, but she shifts her attention to Sam.

“Yes,” Sam says through a sigh. “We’re checking in. I have a reservation under Smith.”

The clerk opens a ledger and scans down a column with her right index finger, polished as red as her lips.

“Sam Smith, party of three. I have you down for one standard room.”

“Actually, is there any way I can switch the reservation to two rooms?” Sam asks.

Dean’s about to balk when Cas yawns into his neck. Two rooms will be pricey, but they can stick Cas in his own and let him sleep off whatever this is, minus the snuggling. The clerk purses her mouth and re-checks their availability.

“I have two standards with a connecting door on the second floor,” she announces. “Will that work?”

“They don’t have to connect,” Sam says quickly. Dean shoots him a look.

“Ah,” the clerk says with a knowing smile, nodding toward Cas and Dean. “Newlyweds?”

Dean can’t even think of a comeback. He gapes while Sam nods sagely.

“We welcome all couples,” she says without irony. “Congratulations. And to help you celebrate, we’re happy to give you an upgrade to our Executive Suite.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Dean insists.

“Dean—” Sam interrupts. “That is _so sweet_ ,” he says to the desk clerk. “Thank you. I know it means the world to my brother here.”

He fixes his puppy eyes on Dean.

“The _world_ ,” Dean parrots and kicks Sam’s ankle.

“That also comes with a complimentary bottle of champagne,” she continues. “I presume you’re both of legal age?”

“Cross my heart,” Dean says flatly, glad Cas is passed out on his shoulder, burrowed into his goddamned _neck_ , and not available to inform her of his actual age. Cas is exhaling warm puffs against Dean’s skin, making it prickle. Dean gulps and wonders how much longer this is going to take.

“Please sign here, and note the make and model of your vehicles,” she says, sliding a piece of paper across the counter for Sam to peruse. He scribbles some name on the line and slaps down the good Visa. “Any expenses will be charged to the card on file,” she informs them.

“Is there anywhere to eat around here?” Sam asks.

“Our dinner service has already started. It’s buffet style, right through there,” she says and points to her left. Dean perks up at the mention of a buffet. “All meals are included with your stay, due to our remote location.”

She tucks a brass key into a small, rectangular envelope and hands it to Sam.

“Room seven,” she says. She does the same with the second key and presents it to Dean. “And the Executive Suite. Both are located up this staircase; the suite is on the third floor,” she says and motions with two fingers. “Breakfast is served from seven-thirty to nine. If there’s anything you need during your stay, please don’t hesitate to alert a member of our staff.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” Dean says, and they start toward the staircase. Cas is a dead weight on his shoulder. “Dude, pick up your feet,” he orders. “I’m not dragging your ass up two flights.”

Cas detaches himself from Dean’s side long enough to climb to the third floor, but once they’re at the top and Dean is distracted reading the sign that points them toward the suite, Cas collapses into his side again. Dean gives up and puts an arm around Cas’s waist to guide him forward.

“C’mon, Sleeping Beauty,” he urges, but it’s useless. He rolls his eyes and shoves their bags at Sam, works Cas’s arm behind his neck so he can hold him by the wrist.

The hallway is wide and well-lit by fixtures every few feet, and smells faintly of wood polish. It’s lined with a dark short-pile carpet that is hard underfoot—really dense, maybe wool. It looks like it was laid down yesterday, no wear or signs of foot traffic.

“Place is nice,” Dean comments under his breath. Sam nods in agreement. “Real nice. Was it expensive?”

“No.” Sam sounds surprised. “Cheaper than most, actually.”

“Must be because we’re in the middle of bumblefuck.”

“I guess. I mean, this was a town once, but it’s gone except for this hotel.”

“Wonder why they bother.”

“I think they were hoping it would revive the town,” Sam says. “Their website said they first renovated in the early sixties. Someone dumped a lot of money into it.”

They march to the swish of his jeans against Cas’s coat. Dean’s not used to staying in hotels of this caliber, but in his limited experience, they aren’t typically this quiet. Maybe everyone’s down in the dining room.

“Winner winner,” Dean says when they reach the suite. He maneuvers so that he can support Cas with one arm and simultaneously unlock the door with the other. He kicks it inward.

The suite’s like something he’s seen in a magazine: twin cowhide chairs flanking a fireplace, generous windows obscured by white draperies, dark-stained furniture, and a chandelier over a huge-ass bed that could practically swallow his whole room in the bunker. With a grunt, he heaves Cas onto it, taking a moment to look around while Sam sets down their luggage and gives the room a quick sweep. Dean spies a jacuzzi tub through the open bathroom door. The floor and counter look like real Carrera marble.

“Cas, man, you lucked out,” he mutters, stepping back.

“No phone.” Sam scowls. “And I still have no signal.”

Dean lays the key next to Cas, who has started to snore.

“Aren’t you holding onto that?” Sam asks.

“I’m bunking with _you_ ,” Dean says, retrieving his bag.

“Not happening. I had enough of your flirting in the car.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s go to dinner,” Sam says, ignoring him. “We can bring him a plate. Don’t forget your key.”

“I’m _not_ sleeping in here.”

“That’s not very gracious,” Sam clucks. “They gave you a free upgrade.”

“You are not right in the head,” Dean declares, but he lets his bag drop back to the floor, picks up the key, and thrusts it in his pocket.

* * *

“So what’s this guy look like, anyway?” Dean asks, glancing around the dining room for a seat. Place looks like a five-star restaurant. Nine lanterns hang suspended in the middle of the room; against the walls, the wood tables have individual pendant lights, and there are throw-pillows on the benches. The chairs are wing backs with plaid detailing—Sammy must be in home-decor Heaven. The wood floor is polished to a shine.

The buffet itself is a line of neat warming trays on spotless tablecloths. Dean piles his plate with two kinds of beef, fried chicken, mashed potatoes with a whole ladle of gravy, and not a green vegetable in sight. Sam crafts himself a farmers’ market.

“I’m not sure,” he replies. “He doesn’t have a picture on his website. We’re meeting up later tonight, according to his last email, but that was six hours ago. He was going to let me know when he checks in, but with my phone out of service...where do you want to sit?”

Despite it being dinner time, only one table is occupied—the other guests must’ve eaten already. What is this, a freaking retirement home? Dean picks a two-top next to the wall and heads toward it, but he stops a few feet away and backs up.

“Thought you were in bed,” he accuses Cas, who is sitting by himself at a table for four, surrounded by a mess of paper. “How did you beat us to the dining room?”

Cas looks up at Dean and squints.

“Excuse me?”

Cas’s hair is still mussed from sleeping in the car, but he’s switched into jeans and a blue shirt, a gray jacket Dean doesn’t recognize. Maybe Sam took him shopping? But Dean’s pretty sure he didn’t see any clothes like this in Cas’s bag. He checked to make sure Cas had the sense to pack a toothbrush, at least.

No such luck.

What he _had_ packed was a field ID guidebook of wildflowers, despite his encyclopedic knowledge; the spare blanket he prefers to use when they sit on the couch; and his FBI badge. Maybe this is a grace thing. Or maybe Cas went through his shit.

“Are you wearing my _clothes_?” Dean continues, pulling up the chair and falling in across from Cas, who appears affronted. He places a hand on top of one of the various stacks of paper and draws it closer to him.

“How did you get past us on the stairs?” Sam asks, sitting down.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, scowling. “Do I _know_ you?”

“Yeah, it’s hilarious, you’re incognito,” Dean quips and starts cutting up his steak. “Did I pack that shirt?”

“If this is some sort of joke, I don’t get it,” Cas snaps, glancing between them. “My name’s Jacob Miller. I don’t know either one of you.”

Dean frowns but Sam blinks a few times, then points with a fork.

“ _You’re_ Jacob Miller!” he exclaims.

“Uh, yeah,” Jacob says, unimpressed. “I just said that.”

Sam laughs and shakes his head, then explains, “I’m Sam. I’m the one who emailed you.”

“Oh, Sam. Hey,” Jacob says, but he still looks confused, which is good, because Dean is fucking baffled. Is this guy a shifter? Dean keeps a hand on his gun. He’s got a silver bullet in his jacket pocket.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam says, extending a hand. Jacob shakes it hesitantly. “This is my brother, Dean. Sorry for the confusion. It’s just, I’m not even sure how to say this—”

“We’ve been driving all day,” Dean interrupts, which stops Sam’s rambling. He feigns dropping his fork and bends over to retrieve it, depositing a silver blade on the table. He clears his throat to get Sam’s attention.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I’m beat.”

He feigns removing the silver knife from his roll of silverware.

“Does this look dirty to you?” he asks and holds it out. Jacob takes it from him, holds it up to the light, and shrugs.

“Looks fine to me,” he says and resumes eating.

Both Dean and Sam sit back, a little perplexed. Whoever this guy is, he’s no shifter. They’ve encountered some weird shit over the years, but this is right up there. Dean's brain is about to short-circuit, so he opens with, “What’s the deal with this place?”

“I was alerted about a massive EM surge by an associate,” Jacob says quietly, glancing around, probably to check if anyone is listening in. Now that Dean is paying attention, he’s aware that Jacob’s voice is higher than Cas’s, lacking the roughness that always makes him sound like he just rolled out of someone’s bed. But the resemblance is uncanny, right down to the color of his eyes, the bags underneath.

Dean tears a chunk out of the fried chicken to distract himself and just manages not to moan over the flavor. It looked kinda subpar in the warming tray, but it’s fantastic—crispy, not too hot, so juicy it’s practically running down his fingers. He catches Jacob watching him and flushes.

He reminds Dean of Cas when they first met, when human grooming mystified him and he couldn’t manage something as simple as combing his hair or getting his tie on straight. Thinking of Cas back then causes a lump in his throat. He scrubs the sleep out of his eyes and tries not to stare, but it’s unsettling. This guy could be Jimmy’s twin brother.

Shit, maybe he _is_ Jimmy’s twin brother. That would make a lot of sense, actually.

“You got any siblings?” Dean asks, hopeful.

“No. Why?”

Damn. “Just making conversation.”

Jacob gives him a strange look. He leans forward, resting both wrists against the edge of the table, and folds his hands together. “You said you’ve dealt with hauntings on this level before?” he asks Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam assures him. Dean can tell he’s trying to hide his amusement. “A few times.”

“I appreciate the help,” Jacob says. “I’ve handled a few small incidents, but with something this big…”

“Are these your readings?” Sam asks, pointing to the papers.

“And some history on the building, though what I’ve been able to find is scarce, and I can’t get a Wifi signal in here. I’ve been trying to email you.”

“Hotel have any historic documents on site?”

“Nothing they’ll let me see,” Jacob says. “I’m hoping to get into their office, but the clerk never takes a break.”

“Leave that to us,” Sam says. “Dean’s pretty persuasive.”

Jacob looks him over with a thoughtful gaze. “Is that so,” he says. His stare is every bit as intense as Cas’s, but unguarded, blatantly interested. Dean is instantly aroused and horrified. This guy’s peeling Dean’s skin away with his eyes like that damned banana, and Dean’s into it.

He shouldn’t be into it. _This ain’t Cas_ , he has to remind himself, but he licks his lips out of habit and Jacob grins. Shit.

It’s a fucking miracle that Cas chooses that moment to appear table side and fixes an angry glare on Dean’s forehead.

“There’s our little angel,” Dean says, relieved. “Cas, Jacob. Jacob, Cas.”

“Hey,” Jacob says, though he sounds uneasy, eyes bugged out in disbelief.

“I know the feeling,” Dean mutters and tries the pot roast.

Jacob clears his throat and sticks out a hand that Cas ignores in favor of stealing a chair from an adjacent table. He deposits it between Dean and Jacob, and sighs heavily.

“Feeling any better?” Sam asks. He’s got spinach overlapping his bottom lip and looks like a frigging cow.

“Somewhat,” Cas says, pinching a chunk of steak from Dean’s plate.

“Get your own,” Dean grouses and tries to block him from seconds.

“It’s all-you-can-eat,” Cas informs him and bats Dean’s hand away. He helps himself to another piece. “You can get more.”

“Cas, how do you like your room?” Sam asks, because Sam’s a shit.

“It’s very comfortable. Thank you,” Cas answers, which doesn’t give Sam ammunition. He begins talking EM fields and methods of eliminating ghosts with Jacob, whose eyes dart to Cas every few seconds. Cas continues to eat from Dean’s plate, and Dean continues to glare at him.

“So,” he says when there is another lull in conversation, because everyone is apparently too chickenshit to say anything. “Are we just gonna ignore the elephant in the room?”

“ _What_ elephant?” Cas asks, narrowing his eyes.

“The resemblance?” Dean mutters, wagging his finger in the general direction of the offenders.

“It’s, uh, freaky,” Jacob says.

“It’s curious,” Cas agrees but doesn’t appear bothered by it. He makes a swipe for more beef. Dean groans and surrenders the rest of his plate.

“He must be related to Jimmy!” Sam exclaims. “Do you think?”

“Who’s Jimmy?” Jacob asks.

“My vessel,” Cas replies simultaneously with Dean’s response, “Cas’s cousin.”

He kicks Cas’s ankle. Cas kicks back. The silverware and plates rattle.

“Guys,” Sam warns, steadying the table.

All Jacob says is, “It’s going to be one of those nights.”

* * *

 

After twenty minutes of discussion and some holy water for good measure, they’ve established that Jacob is human, doesn’t have any cousins, and as far as they can tell, the resemblance is just a coincidence.

“I mean, the term doppelgänger exists for a reason,” Sam poses. Dean excuses himself to the buffet for a third round before he throttles Sam in front of an audience.

This hotel might be haunted, and it might have the highest EMF readings Jacob has ever registered, short of the apocalypse, but the buffet is brimming with _ten kinds of pie_. There’s apple and cherry, of course, but also lemon meringue, blueberry, and Boston cream. Coconut cream and strawberry rhubarb. Chocolate custard and lemon curd and a berry tart. Not a slice of pecan to be seen, but Dean’s not picky.

He starts with a slice of every fruit variety, even nabs a piece of cake that doesn’t look half bad. Cas raises an eyebrow and stirs a puddle of what used to be vanilla ice cream.

“Are you going to eat all of that?” he asks.

“Hell yes,” Dean returns and proceeds to try.

“How’s the cherry?” Jacob asks without looking up from his notes. Dean slides the plate over to him.

“Knock yourself out,” he says, because while he likes cherry okay, this apple kills and he’s going in for seconds. But Jacob shocks him by parting his mouth and leaning forward a couple inches, like Dean’s going to _feed_ him. His face goes instantly hot, hand tightening around the fork as he collects himself. He can’t tear his eyes away from Jacob’s lips.

Cas’s lips. Jesus.

But before he has a chance to respond, Cas cuts a reasonably sized bite of the pie and holds the fork out to Jacob with a hard look. Jacob takes it and feeds himself.

“Thanks,” he comments as he chews, giving Cas a sideways glance before meeting Dean’s eyes again. “That’s not bad.”

Cas settles back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s clearly sulking, so Dean slings an arm behind him and squeezes his shoulder. It’s been a long day. Cas leans into his side for a beat. He exhales, then announces he needs a cup of coffee and gets up.

“So I was thinking we should sweep for hot spots,” Sam says, drunk on the hunt. He’s too excited for someone who just sat on his ass—there’s that word again—for eight hours.

“I agree,” Jacob says, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rises slightly, teasing at his stomach. Dean has to force himself to look away, but not before Jacob notices him looking. His mouth quirks up at the corners, and he drops his eyes to Dean’s lips before grinning at the table.

The coffee doesn’t improve Cas’s mood but the pie lifts Dean’s spirits. By the time he’s scraping gelled blueberry and blackberry and apple bits from his plate, sucking them off the fork, he’s happy to go along on the ghost hunt.

Cas drags behind them, catching up only when Dean hisses his name. He repeats the same childlike behavior he pulled outside: holding onto Dean’s fingers. Dean yanks him forward a few feet, just enough to get him moving, before extracting himself and concentrating on the meter.

“Energy here is stronger than just about anything I’ve seen, short of you,” he mumbles.

Cas yawns, unimpressed.

“If you’re so beat, go back to the room,” Dean instructs, but Cas hangs like a stale refrigerator odor. Dean shakes him off and lets the wall support Cas for a while.

“I’ve never seen that model before,” Jacob comments, motioning to Dean’s meter. He sidles up next to him and holds out his own: a sleek, handheld unit. He doesn’t smell like Cas—sharper, like some name-brand cologne. He presses his shoulder into Dean’s too firmly to be accidental and looks at the Walkman with interest.

Dean turns it over in his hands, shifting his weight so their shoulders drift apart. “Built it myself.”

“ _Really_ ,” Jacob purrs, voice sinking dangerously close to Cas’s octave.

“Yup.” Dean can feel Jacob’s eyes on him and swallows.

“I have an older model in my room,” Jacob says casually. “You might be interested in it. You should come by when we’re finished, check it out.”

Dean’s stomach twists when Jacob touches the dials, twisting them and humming his appreciation.

“This is a good piece of equipment,” Jacob continues. “I’m impressed.”

“Bet you thought I was just a pretty face,” Dean laughs. Oh, god—he’s flirting. He’s flirting and Cas is right there, watching through half-lidded eyes.

“That too,” Jacob says. His eyes flicker to Dean’s mouth, then back to the meter.

“I’m a regular Einstein,” Dean declares. The idea forms in his sugar-high brain and spills out of his mouth without another thought. “That’s why Cas loves me. Ain’t that right, Cas?”

“Isn’t what right?” Cas asks, blinking.

Sam is clearly eating this up, covering his mouth with a hand and focusing unnecessary attention on the ceiling. Jacob, on the other hand, looks disappointed. His mouth flattens into a line.

“That you love me for my mind, not just my body,” Dean says, tugging on his sleeve.

“And your soul,” Cas adds. _Good_ , Dean thinks. He’s playing along.

“Ah,” Jacob says, smile gone. “So you two are...?”

“Yup, me and Cas. We’re together. Just got hitched, actually.”

Dean joins Cas on the wall and slings an arm around his shoulders for effect before he notices Cas’s saucer-wide eyes. He’s stiff with confusion, not a damn clue what’s going on. Fan-freaking-tastic. Dean forces a grin and squeezes Cas’s bicep, leans into his ear and mouths, “Go along with this and I’ll get you a guinea pig.”

Cas shivers.

“Yes,” he says to Jacob after a few seconds, then adds, “It was a private ceremony.”

“Hey, good for you,” Jacob says, though his expression is somewhat accusatory.

“Why don’t you two hit the sack,” Sam suggests. “Cas looks exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” Cas insists through another yawn.

“No, _really_.” Sam is smirking. “We got this.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says with gratitude. He adjusts within the confines of Dean’s arm, speaks so close to his face that Dean can feel Cas’s breath. “Are you coming?”

“’Course,” Dean says. “Cause we’re married. So we sleep in the same room.”

“Did you work that out yourself?” Sam mumbles.

“I hope breakfast is all carbs,” Dean retaliates under his breath, then says loudly enough for Jacob to hear, “Come on, babe.”

He keeps his arm around Cas’s shoulders until they’re out of sight, then drops it like a one-night stand who wants to do names. He is _not_ blushing.

Cas stalks up the staircase and starts down the hall and doesn’t check to see if Dean is following.

“If you don’t like him flirting with you, why don’t you tell him that directly?” he demands outside their door.

“This is easier,” Dean snaps, patting down his pocket for the key and unlocking the room.

“I question your definition of ease,” Cas mutters and walks past him through the door. “I’m tired,” he announces.

“No shit,” Dean says.

“I’m going to sleep,” Cas clarifies.

“We flip for the bed. Loser takes the floor.”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor, Dean,” he snaps.

“I sure as shit ain’t either, not after driving all day.”

Cas looks three seconds from smiting him. Can he still do that?

“If you’re uncomfortable sharing a bed, you can sleep in the car,” Cas informs him. He brushes pink and red rose petals from the coverlet that someone sprinkled on the comforter and floor while they were at dinner, and pulls back the sheets.

“Why do you need to sleep anyway?” Dean bites back, kicking off his boots. “Thought you had enough mojo you didn’t have to do that.”

“I—I don’t know.” Cas looks away. He tugs his striped tie, winds it from his neck. Shrugs out of the trench coat. The suit jacket. Cas stands in front of Dean in suit pants and dress shoes and a damn collared shirt, but he might as well be naked the way Dean’s gawking.

“What?” Cas asks, hands stilling on his chest. He meets Dean’s eyes again.

“Nothing,” Dean tells him, aware he’s staring and his face is hot. He takes off his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair, smooths it unnecessarily, and refuses to let himself look at Cas. “Never really seen you undressed before, except that one time,” he mumbles.

“When April stabbed me,” Cas guesses.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, remembering. “I was thinking of that time you carved yourself into a sigil.”

“Ah.” Cas nods.

“I try not to think about April,” Dean admits, conjuring the memory of Cas’s face in his hands, of practically crawling into his lap with grief.

“No,” Cas murmurs. He takes off his shirt and pants and gets into bed—right in the damn center. “The mattress is supportive,” he says. “Very comfortable.” He turns on his side, away from Dean, and goes still.

Dean considers sleeping on the stiff three-tone striped carpet, but it’s got about as much padding as the hallway, which means his back will hurt like a bitch in the morning—he might as well sleep in the parking lot. The bed is big, with clean sheets and a heap of pillows, but it contains one groggy angel he might have a thing for.

Does. _Does_ have a thing for.

It’s early fall. He probably wouldn’t freeze to death if he opted for the Impala’s backseat, but Sam would laugh him into the next apocalypse if he found out Dean lacks the self-control to sleep next to Cas for a couple nights. While pretending to be married—what the hell was he thinking?

There must be something in the pie. Maybe it’s cursed like Snow White’s apple, but rather than fall comatose and wait for some prince—princess?—to rescue him, he’s trapped himself in a lie, stuck in a fancy hotel room with his best friend slash pseudo-husband and having a panic over it.

Right.

He kicks off his jeans, yanks the jacket and shirt over his head, and gets in bed before he can change his mind. He’s overreacting. Cas isn’t freaking out. Dean pulls the sheet up to his chest and bunches a pillow underneath his head, into the crook of his neck. They’ll only be here a day or two, just long enough for Sam to ride out his geek-gasm, find them a grave to burn. Then Dean can pick up a chick or two, drink himself stupid, and stop thinking about something he can’t have.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s probably Sam coming to tell him about what he and Jacob discovered. Dean answers the door in his boxers.

“Oh, hey,” he says to an apathetic employee pushing a cart of champagne, two glasses, and a plate of strawberries.

“Champagne for the newlyweds,” the employee recites. He notices Cas asleep in bed and lowers his voice. “Should I come back later?”

“Nah, you’re fine,” Dean insists. “Just keep it down. He wasn’t feeling well.” He crosses his arms over his chest while the employee wheels the cart into the room and positions it dead center, then gives a half-bow.

“Goodnight, sir. Enjoy your stay,” he says and exits.

Dean pops a strawberry into his mouth and gets back in bed. Was he supposed to tip the guy? He tucks his hands underneath his pillow. Cas exhales noisily, a peevish sigh. He’s awake. Dean is acutely aware of how close their legs are, that if he rolls over during the night, he’ll certainly roll into Cas. He yawns and stretches, positioning himself on the very edge of the mattress.

“Stop moving,” Cas orders.

“I’m trying to get comfortable.”

“You should’ve considered that before you informed everyone that we’re married.”

Dean rolls over to glare at him. “For your information, the front desk clerk said it first,” he snaps at the back of Cas’s head.

“That doesn’t mean you had the right to claim it.”

“Are you honestly pissed about this?”

“You should have talked with me about it first.”

Dean is incredulous. “Cas,” he hisses, “we pretend to be something we’re not all the time. You pretend to be human.”

Cas rolls over and glares at him in the dark. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Cas fumes. His eyes glint angrily in the moonlight.

“You’re not actually worried about that guy’s _feelings_!” Dean exclaims.

“No,” Cas says with a sigh and turns away.

Dean doesn’t want to have this conversation right now, not when he needs to sleep. Sam will be banging on the door before he knows it.

“Don’t worry,” Dean grunts, punching his pillow into a better shape. “I promise to be a model husband while we’re here.”

Cas buries his head under the sheet and doesn’t speak again until morning. Dean hugs the edge of the mattress and prays Cas isn’t a clingy sleeper.

* * *

He’s out of bed and dressed when Dean opens his eyes and squints into the sunlight spilling through the curtains.

“What time is it?” he croaks.

“Just after seven,” Cas informs him. He’s dragged the cart next to one of the cowhide chairs and fiddles with a pyramid of strawberry leaves. His hair is damp and tousled, not combed smooth like usual. He closes a binder and sets it aside. “I was about to wake you.”

“Feeling any better?” Dean asks, scratching his stomach. His dick is awake and raring to go. He rolls onto his stomach and stretches until it softens.

“Yes,” Cas answers. “I took a shower. There are very nice bath products in the bathroom. Breakfast is in twenty minutes, but I was hungry.” He motions to the strawberries and the unopened bottle of champagne.

“We should stick that in the fridge,” Dean groans into the pillow. “Do we have a fridge?”

“I think so,” Cas says, standing with the bottle neck in his fist and striding across the room. He’s got on his dress shirt but no tie, bare feet, and what look like Dean’s pants.

“You’re in jeans,” Dean observes, propping himself up on an elbow. He scratches his chest and blinks until his eyes water.

“You brought three pairs,” Cas says, crouching in front of the mini fridge. He wiggles the bottle inside. “I like how the cotton feels on my skin. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Did you borrow a pair of boxers too?”

“Yes,” Cas says, rising and coming closer. He stops several feet from the bed. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles, cheeks hot. “Just didn’t want you to catch yourself in the zipper. Hurts like hell.”

“Alright,” Cas says.

“Where’re the weapons?”

“In your bag under the bed.”

“Great. And listen, man, sorry I dragged you into this. If you want me to fess up, I will.”

Cas shakes his head. “I was tired,” he says. “You’re right. We’re just playing a part.”

“Awesome,” Dean says with relief. He throws back the sheets, treads on rose petals on the way to the bathroom. “I’m gonna grab a shower, then we can head down.”

Cas nods toward the window.

* * *

“There’s the happy couple,” Sam announces over a glass of orange juice. Flecks of pulp stick to the sides, and it’s a sunny, vibrant color—the hand-squeezed kind. This place is awesome. Do they have pie for breakfast? He’ll get to hunting in a minute, but first he needs something in his stomach.

Cas settles in across from Sam. “Would you bring me coffee?” he asks Dean.

“The coffee’s right there,” Dean answers.

“You said you’d be a model husband,” Cas reminds him through his teeth.

“Yeah, when _Jacob_ is around.”

“Dean,” Cas says. “If you expect me to play along, I expect you to uphold your half of the agreement.”

“Meaning?”

“When we’re in public, you’ll act like we are in a committed relationship,” Cas says, folding his hands together. “In exchange, I won’t tell Jacob that you fabricated a relationship with me because you’re uncomfortable with his flirtations.”

“That sounds fair,” Sam says.

“Nobody asked you,” Dean snaps.

“Cas needs coffee,” Sam reminds him. “And I’ll take a refill,” he adds, handing Dean his mug in a bid for silence.

“Fine,” Dean agrees and stomps off.

He’s square in front of the coffee pot and can’t remember what Cas takes in his—doesn’t he usually drink it black? He throws a handful of creamer pods and sugar packets on the tray, fills the three cups to the brim, and marches back.

“Your coffee, _dear_ ,” he ribs.

“Thank you,” Cas says, drinking before it’s cool. He looks enraged but takes another sip. Sam fusses with his coffee until it looks like a barista had his wicked way with it.

“Why don’t I have a ring?” Cas asks.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“A ring,” Cas repeats. “If we’re married, we should have rings.”

Sam nods in solidarity.

“D’you see a jewelry shop around here?” Dean asks, throwing his arms out.

He leaves them in favor of the buffet. He loads up on comfort food: bacon, French toast and sausage, half a plate of fried potatoes. There’s a parade of danishes, bagels, cinnamon rolls and muffins. He helps himself to a couple for now, pockets a bagel for later, snags one of those single-serving cream cheese packets and an extra knife.

“Don’t know about you two, but I’m digging this place so far,” he declares, settling in across from Cas and Sam. They give twin grunts. He ignores them, plants both elbows on the table, and goes to town on his plate.

“Is that all for you?” Cas asks. Dean’s cheeks are puffed full of grease and starch.

“By all means,” he says through a full mouth. Cas peruses the selection with the serious look and plucks a danish from the middle.

“It’s sticky,” he decides, pondering his first bite.

“It’s delicious,” Dean corrects and winks as Cas takes another.

“Top of the morning, fellas,” someone says behind him. Dean has to double check that Cas’s mouth is full of danish, and that he can’t possibly be the one speaking. That’ll take some getting used to.

“Hey,” he says without turning around. He stuffs more potatoes in his cheek. Sam brightens and points to the empty chair next to Dean.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Jacob says with hesitance, coming into Dean’s peripheral vision, but Sam waves off his comment.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down.”

Dean tries not to bristle as Jacob settles in beside him. He polishes off his potatoes, the rest of the sausage, and offers Cas the last strip of bacon. Cas eyes it, then parts his lips. That fucker. But Dean’s not gonna let Cas outplay him. He reaches across the table with the whole damn strip.

“It’s too long,” Cas tells him. Dean smiles through clenched teeth, snaps the bacon in half, then quarters, and presses a bite-sized piece to Cas’s lips.

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, which makes Cas blink in surprise. He tongues the bacon into his mouth.

“More?” Dean asks sweetly.

Cas nods, so they repeat the farce until the strip is gone, and his finger is in Cas’s mouth, thumb tracing his lower lip. Dean wants to die a little. His cheeks scald when Cas licks his fingertip, and his dick goes hard.

“Maybe you need to go outside, Dean,” Sam urges. “You look a little flushed.”

“Eat your sticks,” Dean defends, taking his hand away—he’s careful not to do it too quickly. He’s just a guy feeding his husband some bacon. No big thing. Sam’s chewing granola with vigor. Dean doesn’t even remember him getting up. He cleans his hand on a napkin while Cas sips his coffee with a blank expression.

“So,” Jacob says, curving a spoon into a poached egg. It vomits yolk on the plate. “I’m going to try and get access to the hotel office, get pictures of as much as I can find.”

“We’ll distract the staff,” Sam says.

“Could go the Fed route,” Dean suggests.

“We’ve already checked in,” Sam counters. “If we were going to play Feds, we should’ve done that from the get-go. This way, their suspicions aren’t raised. We’re just regular guests.”

“I guess,” Dean sniffs.

“I’ll talk to the staff, see if any of them have had personal experiences,” Sam rambles. “They’re here every day. They probably have a sense of the hotspots.”

“Assuming they want to talk to you,” Dean says.

“Why wouldn’t someone want to talk to Sam?” Cas asks, frowning.

Dean snorts. “Not everyone likes admitting they see something regular people consider crazy.”

“Why?”

“What’s with the Q&A?” Dean snaps, then sighs at his error. He reaches for Cas’s hand. “Some people care too much what other people think,” he says and rubs his thumb over Cas’s knuckles, the way he’d do when he and Lisa argued. Cas appears to settle.

“Wh—” he starts, but cuts himself off in time. Dean shrugs and drops his gaze to the table, gives Cas’s hand a final squeeze before dropping it.

“Because they want people to like them,” he explains.

“Oh.”

“Recognition can be validating,” Jacob adds. He spears a chunk of tomato and fusses with his necklace. Dean catches it out of the corner of his eye, a thick gold ring hanging from a chain. Sam’s eyes, which are already fantastically wide, practically bulge out.

“Oh my god,” he says. “You’re Jacob _Glaser_.”

Jacob looks up, startled.

“Who?” Dean asks. Sam pins him with laser eyes.

“Jacob Glaser,” he repeats, quieter. “The astrophysicist? Youngest recipient of the Prevolich Award?”

“It’s like you’re trying to communicate,” Dean says, “but all I hear is blah blah blah.”

Sam rolls his eyes and shifts his attention to Jacob. “I read about what happened to you in England—they said you were dead.”

“Legally, I am,” Jacob replies with a sardonic laugh. “Last thing I remember is reaching for the antikythera mechanism.” It’s a miracle Sammy doesn’t have a stroke. Dean snorts. “I woke up a few miles away, somehow got myself to a hospital. Figured it would be easier if I went underground, assumed a new name, one that didn’t carry the stigma.”

Sam is shaking his head. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

“Had we met?” Jacob asks, squinting.

“No, no—I was a big fan of your show. Your other show, _The Real Story_ , before Dr. Leeds took over.”

“Yeah, Kaycee kept it up for a while,” Jacob says. “I didn’t have a big following. I’m surprised you remember me.”

“Are you kidding?” Sam exclaims. “I caught it every time we were in Maine. You’re part of the reason we were able to track all that crazy stuff a few years ago.”

“What stuff?” Cas asks.

“The _big_ stuff,” Sam says with intentional ambiguity.

“Oh,” Cas says. “You mean the events that heralded the apocalypse.”

“Thanks, Captain Discretion,” mutters Dean.

“Discretion is a human invention,” Cas remarks.

“Are you not human?” Jacob asks, squinting again.

“What gave it away?” Dean deadpans. Jacob laughs and scrapes his plate.

“They used to call _me_ crazy,” he says.

“Oh,” Dean says, remembering a detail that Sam used to blab about. “You’re the guy who found aliens on the moon.”

“It wasn’t _aliens_ ; it was—” Jacob starts, then holds both hands up. “You know what? I’m tired of saying it.”

“Then what the hell did you find?” Dean asks, perplexed. Jacob rubs his forehead.

“I discovered a sign of a previous culture, not a member of the culture itself.”

“So, no Vulcans.”

“No,” Jacob says.

“Dean, Vulcans aren’t real,” Cas confides, touching Dean’s hand. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Thanks for pointing that out, sweetheart.”


	2. Chapter 2

After breakfast, Sam breaks them into teams. “Cas and me, we’ll talk to the staff, distract them so Jacob can get into the office. Dean, you head out to the parking lot, see what you can find out.”

“Why is Cas going with you?” he asks.

“Can’t a guy spend some time with his brother-in-law?” Sam counters. Cas looks pleased by the term, turning to grin at Sam. “Not sure if you noticed on our way in, since you and Cas were pretty busy inhaling each other’s oxygen, but it’s practically a classic car show out there.”

“So?”

“So where is everyone?” Sam asks, motioning to the nearly empty room. “Someone had to drive all of them here.”

“Maybe they slept in.”

Sam stares at him with a blank expression.

“Alright,” Dean acquiesces. “I got car duty. Meet you back at the room?”

“Sounds good,” Sam says and bounds off, leaving Dean alone with Jacob and Cas. Cas lingers behind, leans in to kiss his cheek—holds it for a beat—then follows.

“How long have you two been together?” Jacob asks as Cas walks away.

“Too long,” Dean mutters. He watches as Jacob switches on an even smaller meter than he used last night, attaching it to his phone. Jacob catches him staring.

“This one’s connected to an app,” he explains, “so it buzzes when I encounter an EMF spike.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“I can keep it in my pocket,” Jacob says. “You never know when you might run across something paranormal.”

“Believe me,” Dean says. “I get it.”

“You and your brother been doing this long?”

“Since we were kids,” Dean says, tapping the side of his meter when the lights flicker. Batteries are probably running low. “Our dad trained us.”

“That’s a peculiar hobby.”

They leave the dining room and wander towards the lobby. Sam is leaning over the front desk, hair flopping in his eyes, with a big grin. He’s laying it on thick. He’ll probably have a shirt off in a minute for effect. Cas isn’t around. Jacob gestures his head toward the office door.

“Catch you later,” he says. Dean half waves and goes out into the parking lot.

Sam wasn’t kidding about the cars. There are nineteen models in prime condition, lined up like an auto show. He picks out a ’63 Stingray (Seabring Silver—nice), ’57 Chevy in Larkspur Blue. There’s a red Road Runner (’68 if he had to guess) and a ’64 Cobra. He blushes when he remembers Baby can see him ogling.

She looks right at home in the same lot with all of them. Even her polish glints more than usual, like she’s pleased about it. He walks along the rows, occupying all closest spots to the entrance. The cars look like props, with a conspicuous lack of personal items, the interiors vacuumed to showroom perfection. The license plates span fourteen states; a couple probably haven’t been roadworthy in years, but every car is spotless, buffed to a sheen—no water spots, no bird shit. He makes note of the various makes and models, figures he can talk shop with a couple of the owners. If nothing pans out, at least he’ll get in some interesting conversation.

In the daylight, the building doesn’t seem as imposing as it did when they first pulled in. It’s constructed from red brick, just three stories tall, with a portico over the front doors. He can make out a swimming pool beyond a wrought-iron gate, the water a deep, sophisticated blue. A flag is hoisted at the center of the roof, lying flat against the pole. There’s no breeze.

He snaps several photos with his phone for reference, then takes one of each car and license plate as he works his way toward the Impala.

It’s cooler today than yesterday, so he pops the trunk, digs out his heavier jacket. He searches for a pack of batteries but comes up short. Damn. He shuts the trunk with both hands and almost pisses himself when he notices a small man in a hotel uniform, slacks and a collared shirt, standing at attention next to the car.

“Good morning, sir,” he says. “Something I can help you with?”

“Just...grabbing my coat,” Dean explains and holds it up as evidence.

“I hope you aren’t planning to leave us,” the man says. A glance reveals a name tag: Rodney.

“Probably tomorrow,” Dean says. He points to the cars. “This is quite a collection.”

“We’re rather proud of it,” Rodney says.

We. So they _are_ hotel property?

“Are they for show?” Dean asks.

“They belong to our long-time guests,” Rodney replies. He whips out a chamois and rubs a mark from a 442—holy shit.

“Long-time? So you have a lot of permanent residents?”

Rodney nods. Dean’s heard of people living in hotels, not like he and Sam did, but actually living in one for years like it’s an apartment. Course, he can’t riddle out why anybody would choose to live in an old hotel in the desert, but, hey. At least the food is good. Dean’s done worse for less payout.

“Oh,” Dean adds. “Where’s the nearest place I can get a pack of AAs?”

“We can take care of that for you, sir,” says Rodney.

“I’d rather get it myself. Just point me in the right direction.”

“We have complimentary batteries at the front desk, sir.”

“Okay, thanks,” Dean says, but he’s skeptical. Either this is the greatest hotel ever or something is off. Every shitty roadside motel coughs up muffins and coffee, but batteries are never free. “How long you been here?”

“Since 1961,” Rodney replies. He doesn’t look much older than Dean, but ’61 would mean this dude’s pushing sixty. Maybe Sammy’s onto something with that rabbit food of his. Or maybe...

“Did your parents work here?” Dean asks, wondering if he grew up in the hotel.

“No,” Rodney answers.

“Huh,” Dean says and digs in his pocket. “Hey, man, hold these for a second?”

He tosses Rodney his keys.

Rodney dissipates as the iron “D” keychain passes through his body. Guess Sammy gets an A+ for that stocking stuffer.

“Sonofabitch,” says Dean.

* * *

Sam’s still making moon eyes at the front desk clerk when Dean approaches with a painfully wide grin and mutters, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Be right back,” Sam says, overly saccharine—girl’s liable to get a cavity—and ushers Dean several feet away. “Jacob’s still in there,” Sam hisses. “What do you need?”

“You give her your keys yet?” Dean asks.

“Huh?”

“Your _keys_ ,” Dean says with emphasis. “Guy in the parking lot was a big fan of mine.”

“Shit, really?” Sam says and quickly glances over his shoulder. “She looks so…”

“Normal?” Dean supplies. “Trust me. Meet you in the room in five. Where’s Cas?”

“Beats me. We were together for a while, but he said he was going to check on something.”

“Alright. Hey, ask her about batteries. The guy said they’re free.”

“Sure,” Sam says, mouth spilling into his guy next-door smile as he turns back toward the desk clerk. Dean’s amazed anyone falls for that act.

Back in the room, he pours a large salt circle on the carpet and camps out in the center with his carry-out bagel and a shotgun. He types out a text to Cas, but it won’t send. His battery has already drained to fifty percent just scanning for the network. He gives the phone a good smack. He’s convinced it helps, no matter what Sam says. The message doesn’t go through, but Cas shows up anyway a few minutes later, mouth downturned and eyes shifty.

“Why the face?” Dean demands, switching his phone off.

“What happened?” Cas asks immediately upon noticing the salt circle and Dean lounging on the floor within it.

“Pretty sure the staff’s dead,” Dean says, popping the last piece of bagel in his mouth and sucking cream cheese from his fingers. “Figured the privacy sign might not work.”

“I came to the same conclusion,” Cas says. He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs his eyes.

“Guess that’s why we didn’t identify any hot spots,” Dean concludes. “Whole damn place is a fucking live wire.”

Cas sniffs and rolls up his sleeves.

“They react to iron,” Dean continues, “so the procedure should be the same: salt and burn, then home to the bunker and our separate mattresses.”

That last part was probably overkill. He touches his ring finger.

“What did you find out?” he asks, scooting over to make room on the floor. He pats the empty space, which prompts Cas to come sit beside him.

“Danishes don’t sit well in my stomach,” Cas complains, rubbing his belly.

“You probably gotta poop,” Dean says. “Half hour, you’ll be good as new.”

Cas stares at him with part disgust, part fascination. He grimaces and leans into Dean’s side. A couple days playing house with Cas won’t ruin him for all future partners. Probably. And Cas feels like shit, which is kind of Dean’s fault—he fed him all that junk at breakfast.

He folds Cas against his side. “Sorry you don’t feel well,” he murmurs against his hair. It’s soft. Of _course_ it’s soft. He caresses it with his cheek but doesn’t dare kiss it. “You want to lie down?”

“Yes,” Cas groans and flattens a hand on Dean’s chest, bears him to the floor. He carefully places his head on Dean’s shoulder and adjusts until they’re lying tangled up in the salt circle. It’s nice. God, it’s nice. Cas feels like Dean fantasizes he would, heavy and warm. Dean strokes his bare forearm, grazes the top of his hand.

“What’d Sam want with you earlier?” Dean asks.

Cas answers against his shoulder: “He wanted to make sure I was alright with this. I assured him it was fine.”

Dean yawns, relaxing. He could fall asleep if he isn’t careful. Cas continues to moan like he’s uncomfortable, so Dean works a hand into his hair, tugs on it gently until he quiets. He tenses when the door creaks open, fingers the shotgun to check that it’s still within reach. Cas grunts into his chest and doesn’t move.

“If this is a new kink you’ve discovered, I don’t want to know,” Sam proclaims.

“Cas’s stomach hurt,” Dean says in defense, lifting his head from the floor and loosening his hold on Cas. “How’d you get in here?”

“Door wasn’t locked,” Sam says and comes in with Jacob in tow. He shuts the door and latches it unnecessarily. “Desk clerk is a ghost, too.”

“Dean and I believe the entire staff is deceased,” Cas announces. His breath penetrates Dean’s shirt, hot and moist, then cools. Dean exhales shakily. They should probably sit up.

“Yeah? What did you find?” Sam asks.

Cas rolls onto his back, clears his throat, and rocks upward into a sitting position with his arms hugging his knees. “I spoke with a young woman from the housekeeping staff. She informed me that she’s been employed here since 1972, but she appears to be no older than twenty-five.”

“Do you think they know?” Sam poses, settling into one of the chairs. Jacob takes the other. “I mean, maybe they don’t know.”

“Like that movie?” Jacob says.

“A lot of the time they don’t realize what they are,” Sam explains, nodding. “And it’s not just ghosts. Lots of humans that have undergone a transformation are in denial about it.”

“Why the hell would a bunch of ghosts get together and run a hotel?” Dean asks, lacing his hands together on his chest. “Much as I like you guys, that ain’t how I’m spending the afterlife.”

“I think we would run an efficient hotel,” Cas says, looking down at him.

“Can you imagine Dean handling check-ins?” Sam chimes in. “He’d send everybody to the wrong rooms, then storm out when they complained. A B&B is more your speed.”

“I like that idea,” Cas says.

“You would,” Dean mutters.

“It was yours: _A charming bed and breakfast in Vermont_ ,” Cas echoes. _“_ Do you remember?”

“You have a freaky memory,” Dean declares and sits up, flaps his hands in the air. “So what’re we doing about this? You dig up anything useful?” he asks Jacob.

“Nothing much,” Jacob says. “They don’t appear to do anything via computer. Everything is in paper hotel ledgers. They’ve got guest signatures going back fifty years.”

“You took pictures?”

“Before my phone died, yes,” Jacob says, scanning the room for an outlet. He plugs in his phone to charge.

Dean picks at his fingernails. “Did they note their cars in the ledger, maybe license plates?”

Jacob scans through his photographs with pursed lips. “No,” he says.

“Any personal items? Blueprints? Shit that looks like it belongs in a museum?”

“Nothing,” Jacob says. “I don’t suppose we can just torch the building?”

Dean actually considers this for a few seconds before catching Sam’s eye. “It’s a little extreme, but it would work.”

“No,” Sam says firmly.

“You’re no fun.”

“How is arson ‘fun’?” Cas asks. Dean can hear the air quotes.

“Cause we light a match and get the hell out of here,” Dean tells him, yawning into the crook of his arm. “Can’t believe we’ve never tried that before.”

“Won’t do us any good if the grave’s off-site,” Sam says. Dean shrugs in resignation.

“What did you get out of the desk clerk?” he asks, changing topics.

“She smiled a lot,” Sam says. “Said she didn’t know anything about a haunting.”

“Of course not,” Dean sighs. “Guy in the parking lot was pretty insistent about us staying on the property. Even tried to bribe me with free batteries. That’s what tipped me off. No place is that accommodating, not for the price we’re paying.”

Sam’s mouth forms an O-shape before he tosses a pack of AAs to Dean.

“I thought the rate seemed low,” Jacob comments, combing a hand back through his hair.

“It’s not like the staff has to eat,” Dean points out, looking away. He rests a hand between Cas’s shoulder blades. “Or sleep.”

“No salaries, either,” Jacob says.

“How does a whole group of ghosts end up running a hotel? Do you think there was some kind of accident? A gas leak?” Sam speculates.

“I don’t think so,” Dean says. “Cas’s ghost is from the seventies, but that guy outside’s been here a decade longer.”

“So they’re...recruiting?” Jacob asks.

“Why not?” Dean says. “It’d be boring as hell hanging out with the same assholes every day.”

Cas looks at him like he’s just been scalded.

“I didn’t mean _you_ ,” Dean says. “Just, in general, though you’ll be sick of me in fifty years.”

“I won’t,” Cas says with certainty. “I plan to spend eternity with you.”

Dean can’t be sure if Cas is speaking truthfully or just playing a part, but he blushes regardless. Cas holds his eyes for a beat and smiles gently before looking away.

“Jesus,” Jacob says to Sam. “Are they like this all the time?”

“You have no idea,” Sam says, rubbing his face. Dean casts him a rude look.

“We’ve got two shotguns,” he says. “Iron rods, plenty of salt. Cas, are you good?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas answers, studying his hands. “I don’t know if the grace has faded further, or if this building is a drain on my power. I feel very...human.” He says it like he’s tasted something rotting.

“A drain,” Sam repeats. “You mean it’s using you, like a battery?”

“It’s possible,” Cas says. “It would explain why I’m so tired.”

“Oh, I _know_ why you’re tired,” Dean says and waggles his eyebrows.

Cas is nonplussed. Sam gives Dean an exasperated look.

“What?” Dean snaps.

“Can you defend yourself?” Sam asks Cas, ignoring him.

“I don’t know,” Cas admits.

“Then we stay in pairs,” Dean says. “We search every damn room in the place.”

“According to the housekeeper, there are thirty guest rooms,” Cas says.

“Alright, that’s fifteen each,” Sam says. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

“How do we get into the rooms?” Jacob asks.

“Sammy and me, we’re world-class lock pickers,” Dean says. “And if that fails, we just kick in the door.”

“I have these,” Cas says, holding up a ring of old-fashioned metal keys.

“You pick-pocketed the maid?” Sam asks, sitting forward. He laughs, impressed.

“I thought it would be useful,” Cas defends.

“You,” Dean says, slinging an arm over his shoulder, “you done good.” He plants a sloppy kiss on Cas’s cheek for show before getting up.

“She was very kind,” Cas confides. “I felt bad for interfering with her work.”

“Well, she can’t get fired,” Dean says, helping Cas to his feet. Cas grips the shotgun in his left hand and Dean’s hand in his right.

* * *

“This place is cleaner than the bunker,” Dean declares as he pulls out drawer after drawer in room twenty-nine. “I swear to god, there’s not a speck of dust anywhere.”

“Dust consists largely of skin,” Cas says. He drops to his hands and knees to look under the bed with a flashlight. “Ghosts don’t have skin.”

“I think we just wasted two hours,” Dean says, closing the last drawer and dropping onto the bed.

“We eliminated the possibility that there is a body in one of the hotel rooms or the supply closet,” Cas says from the floor.

“Doesn’t get us any closer to solving this bitch,” Dean says. “You find anything interesting down there?”

“No,” Cas says, head popping up between Dean’s knees, spawning a hundred new masturbatory fantasies. “We should go find Sam.”

“In a second,” Dean says, stretching his arms over his head, then settling them on his stomach. He adjusts his hips. “This bed’s comfortable.”

“So is ours,” Cas says. “You can sleep in it tonight.”

“I slept too long last night,” Dean complains. “Made me groggy.”

“It’s probably the energy drain,” Cas says. “It’s starting to affect you.”

“I could go for more coffee.”

“We can get some on the way,” Cas says. His fingers curl around Dean’s palm. “Come on.”

“Ten minutes. They’ll assume we’re having a quickie,” Dean protests, yawning, throat seized by it. He relaxes into the mattress and yawns again, lets his eyes close.

“Jacob perhaps, but Sam knows better,” Cas says with irritation. He gives a final tug on Dean’s hand before letting go. Dean wonders if Cas will simply leave him here to sleep when he feels a dip in the mattress—Cas must be kneeling on the edge—and a firm slap to his face. “Dean.”

“What?” he snaps, sitting up, rubbing at the sting in his cheek.

“We shouldn’t stay in here,” Cas says, hovering over him. “I need you to come with me.”

Dean reluctantly thrusts out his hand and lets Cas take it, drag him out of the room and down the hall, toward the staircase.

“Castiel?”

Dean’s head whips around. The voice belongs to a young woman lingering outside of the guest room beside the ice machine. She has limp hair pinned neatly behind her head, and a knee-length shift that fits about as well as Jimmy’s suit.

“Alma,” Cas says.

“Is this your husband?” she asks, smiling shyly at Dean.

“Yes,” Cas replies. “Dean, this is Alma. She’s in charge of housekeeping.”

“Hey,” Dean says, concealing the shotgun against his thigh.

“Is your room satisfactory?” she asks.

“It’s awesome. Thanks.”

“If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

“We will,” Cas assures her.

She dips her head and picks up a stack of towels from her cart, disappearing into a guest room.

“Dude, this is fucking weird,” Dean mutters. “Think she figured out you nabbed her keys?”

Cas shrugs as they start down the stairs.

Dean is slumped against Cas’s shoulder, a reverse of their positions from last night, when they meet up with Jacob and Sam on the second floor. They’re standing outside Sam’s room, both laboring to stifle yawns.

“I didn’t realize ransacking hotel rooms took such a toll on you,” Jacob comments.

“It doesn’t,” Cas tells him, covering a yawn of his own. “You’re all being affected by the same thing that’s been draining my grace.”

“Grace?” Jacob repeats.

“It’s an angel thing,” Dean dismisses, ignoring the way Jacob’s eyes widen.

“Find anything?” Sam asks.

“Nada,” Dean says, squeezing his eyes closed, then opening them wide in an attempt to shake off the drowsiness. He shakes his head, shakes out his limbs. “Maybe that was decaf at breakfast.”

“I don’t think so,” Sam says, covering his mouth as he yawns again. “I don’t have a headache. Let’s head down to the basement before we all pass out.’’

“How do we get there?”

“There’s a staircase next to the office,” Jacob says. “I discovered it last night.”

“So we’ll just casually stroll to the basement with our shotguns,” Dean says.

“We casually broke into all of the guest rooms,” Cas reminds him.

“Touche.”

“I don’t know,” Sam ponders out loud. “If this place is as powerful as Cas thinks, they probably know what we’re up to, and they haven’t tried to stop us yet.”

“Which means we aren’t even freaking close,” Dean mutters.

“Dean needs caffeine,” Cas says.

“We could all use a cup,” Sam says. “Think the dining room is serving?”

“I believe there’s an afternoon tea service in the lobby,” Cas replies. “I read about it in the hotel’s literature.”

“When?” Dean asks.

“While you were asleep this morning,” Cas says.

The tea does fuck-all to crank his eyes open, so Dean stuffs his mouth with tiny crustless sandwiches and hopes chewing will have more effect. They’re the only guests who show face, which is a bonus, because the sandwiches might be small, but they’re top notch.

“They would probably brew coffee if we ask,” Jacob says, plunking a tea bag into his second cup of hot water.

“It might draw attention,” Cas says quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah, cause four grown men having a frigging tea party at two in the afternoon doesn’t raise a flag,” Dean mutters around a mouthful of cucumbers and white bread.

“What’s wrong with having tea?” Jacob asks.

“Nothing,” Sam says, primly lifting his own cup. “Dean’s just suffering from a crisis of masculinity.”

“After water, tea is the most widely consumed beverage in the world,” Cas schools him.

“Shut up and drink your leaves,” Dean snaps.

“Drinking tea occasionally would be beneficial to your health,” Jacob tells him. “Besides hydration, the polyphenols are thought to have cancer-fighting benefits.”

“Pretty sure a monster’ll get to me before some mutant cells.”

“Don’t say that,” Cas admonishes, placing a hand on top of his.

Dean’s first instinct is to pull away, but he remembers their audience and the part he’s chosen to play. He breathes out through his nose, allowing Cas to dip his fingers between Dean’s and lace their hands together. It has an unexpected calming effect. Cas massages his thumb against the side of Dean’s pinkie, a motion so gentle it seems effortless.

It appears to amuse the hell out of Sam, who smirks when Jacob isn’t looking. Dean squeezes his fingers together in frustration. They tighten around Cas’s, and Cas squeezes back. His fingertips curl up into Dean’s palm. It’s somehow more intimate than sleeping in the same bed, letting Cas touch him this way, knowing that Sam is watching them. He feels naked despite his multiple layers.

“How much caffeine can I drink before I die?” he asks to change the subject.

“A lethal dose would be about fifty double espressos,” Jacob says.

“So I’ve got a while.”

“Thankfully, yes,” Jacob says and grins. His grin looks just like Cas’s, so Dean smiles back without hesitation and holds it for a beat without blinking.

Cas clears his throat and takes his hand away. Dean drops his eyes.

“Drink up, buttercup,” he says, turning back to Cas, ignoring the funny look Sam gives him. “We’ve got hunting to do.”

“Should we head down together?” Sam asks, getting up.

“Two guns are better than one.”

Sam snorts, swatting Dean on the shoulder as he walks past his chair, leaning down to mutter, “You’d know.”

* * *

The basement yields nothing but stacks of musty files and photo albums from what looks like a renovation a few decades back. The dust makes Dean sneeze—his allergies are apparently exacerbated by exhaustion—so he opts to stand guard at the base of the stairs while the others paw through boxes. Twice, he’s positive he hears footsteps, but both times he spins on his heel, shotgun wedged firmly against his shoulder, and sees only air.

Sam calls out their progress. There are no obvious signs of the concrete being disturbed, no makeshift graves, no false walls or hidden doors. Jacob uncovers an old corded phone in a box of office supplies, so they spend ten minutes searching for an outlet only to sigh in collective disappointment at the absence of a dial tone.

Nothing manifests to stop them, but Dean has to strip off his jacket to keep from falling asleep standing up.

“Think they’re serving yet?” he asks Cas as they tromp up the stairs, defeated. He’s positive he smells prime rib. Oh, hell yes. He slaps on an innocent grin as they pass Rodney and the front desk clerk, who chat quietly behind the counter. He’s prepared to invent a story about kinky, quasi-public honeymoon sex, but the clerk flashes a smile about as genuine as his marriage. She doesn’t question where they just came from.

Dean’s about to veer them toward the dining room when Cas stops in front of the desk. He turns to the clerk and asks, smooth as honey, “Would it be possible to have food sent to our room?”

“Of course,” she says, straightening.

Rodney tips his hat and excuses himself while she reaches for something underneath the counter. She presents them with a long piece of card stock shaped like a privacy sign.

“Here’s a menu. Simply check off the items you’d like and hang it on the door. I’ll send someone up to retrieve it.”

“Thank you,” Cas says. He accepts the menu and worms an arm around Dean’s waist, stepping closer to the counter. Dean supposes they’re distracting the clerk from seeing Jacob and Sam emerge from the same hallway. “I’m embarrassed to say we didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Would you prefer a different room?” she asks, moving her hand toward the ledger.

“We were up late,” Dean cuts in. “Celebrating,” he adds. He winks for emphasis. “Thanks for the strawberries.”

Her surprise at the information is apparent; her expression doesn’t change, but there’s a noticeable tightening in her mouth—he can’t tell if she’s annoyed or amused. “Is twenty minutes enough time for you to decide on your meals?” she asks.

“That’s fine,” Cas says. “Thank you.” He gives her a long, saccharine smile before guiding Dean toward the staircase.

“Dude, there’d better be steak on that menu,” Dean complains as they start to climb. “Can you smell that?”

“We’re the only guests in this hotel.”

“What?”

“I could read the ledger,” Cas says. His arm is still looped around Dean’s waist, even though they’re out of sight. “Only three rooms are marked as occupied.”

“You’re telling me all those cars belong to the staff?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Cas, some of those are collectibles. They cost a damn fortune, and I don’t have to remind you that the staff’s six-feet under.”

“It’s possible they owned them while they were alive. They weren’t collectibles when they were new.”

“No way those have been sitting in the Nevada desert for half a century,” Dean argues. “They’d be falling apart.”

“You frequently drive the Impala across the country, yet it’s in excellent condition and nearly as old.”

“What’s your point?” Dean asks, patting down his pocket for the key. He unlocks the door, aware when Cas’s hand leaves his waist. He walks straight for the bed and falls onto it, face first.

“I don’t know,” Cas says. He covers a yawn and sits on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes. “I can’t think clearly.”

“Are we really ordering room service?” Dean asks into the mattress.

“Yes,” Cas says.

“Dude, why?”

“I want time by myself, without Jacob around.”

“What’s wrong with Jacob?” Dean asks with a frown.

“I find him...” Cas begins, gazing out the window while he thinks. “Vexing,” he finishes.

“Why?”

Cas answers him with a cold stare. “If you’re interested in him, why did you lie about being married to me?”

“Hold the phone,” Dean says, sitting up. “Are you _jealous_?”

“I don’t understand why you put me in the middle of this, Dean.”

“You want me to apologize again? I will. I’m sorry, okay? I wish I’d never said a damn thing.”

“Well, I’m sure he’s still interested.”

“That’s not—” Dean stammers in frustration. “Cas, I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m interested in him, but I’m not. At all. Capiche?”

“If you say so,” Cas says, though he sounds unconvinced.

“This is the exhaustion talking. I’m making coffee before we both say shit we regret,” Dean mutters, shuffling to the in-room machine. He fiddles with the water tank and tears open two bags of ground Arabica beans. He’ll fight this exhaustion with a good old-fashioned cup of joe, double strength.

Cas locates a pen and takes a minute to peruse the menu. He scribbles something on it, walks to the room door, and hangs it on the knob.

“You gonna let me look?” Dean complains.

“I ordered us each a steak with a baked potato, and two kinds of pie.”

“Oh,” Dean says, softening. “That’s—thanks.”

Cas blinks as though he’s surprised, then schools his face into something neutral. “I know what you like,” he states and goes into the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower,” he announces over his shoulder before closing the door.

“Give that tub a whirl,” Dean shouts through it. “Get your money’s worth.” But Cas starts the shower; the curtain swishes open and closed. It’s just as well. At the rate they’re yawning, he’d probably fall asleep in the tub and drown.

Dean pours a fat mug of coffee and adjusts the thermostat to sixty-five. They might shiver a little during dinner, but it’ll prevent both of them face down in a hunk of bovine.

Cas is still in the shower when their meals arrive, which smell as mouthwatering as the buffet downstairs. Dean scrounges for a couple bucks to tip the employee, belatedly realizing it’s unnecessary—where’s he going to spend it, Ghosts R Us?—and tries to keep the guy’s attention focused on the half of the room with the fireplace, not the prominent salt circle taking up half the usable floor. Maybe he can explain it away as a new-age ritual: sex in one of these things brings good luck for decades; they haven’t heard that?

There’s a clatter and curse from the bathroom. Cas is naked in the bathroom, and now Dean’s got a vision of him gloriously naked on the floor, on top of Dean, which—bad timing, since the bellhop has turned to look at him, and there’s the fact that Dean’s not actually getting laid tonight.

Dean thrusts the dollars at the guy, mutters his thanks, and walks him backwards out of the room. He palms his dick into submission, thinks _baseball, baseball_ , before pounding on the bathroom door.

“You okay in there, buddy?”

“I knocked the hair dryer off of the wall. It landed on my foot.”

“You need me to kiss it?” Dean offers, which is stupid. _Dude, shut up_. He needs food and sleep, pronto. It doesn’t help matters that Cas replies, “If you think it will help” and opens the door in a towel.

Cas in a towel is criminal, a reminder of how long it’s been since Dean got any. He gapes at Cas’s chest and stomach, toned and tanned and begging to be stroked. Cas’s pectoral muscle twitches when he adjusts his towel, landing a spot on the list of Top Ten Sexiest Things Dean Winchester Has Ever Witnessed. He forgets how to make words and what they were talking about, until Cas points to his foot.

“I think it’s bruised,” he says.

It’s a second before Dean has the sense to look down to note the reddened place on the top of Cas’s foot.

“You can’t heal it?”

“No.”

“Uh,” Dean says and motions to the chairs beside the fireplace. “Sit down. Get your weight off of it. Food’s here.”

Cas glances to the chairs, then down his body. “I’ll get dressed first.”

 _No_ , supplies Dean’s brain, but his mouth is able to say, “Hey, man, however you’re most comfortable. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“I’m most comfortable naked,” Cas declares, and there’s that dick problem again when Cas’s fucking pectoral muscle practically _waves_ —Christ.

“No offense, man, but a face full of your junk doesn’t do a lot for my appetite.”

“Of course,” Cas says mildly and goes back into the bathroom, presumably for his clothes. He comes back in just Dean’s t-shirt and Dean’s pants, no outer layers, no socks. He examines his foot once he’s seated, prodding where it swells.

“Does it hurt that bad?” Dean asks, lifting the metal dome off of their plates, cutting into the steak closest to him.

“Yes,” Cas sulks.

Dean finishes chewing, swallows hard and crouches on the floor to examine Cas’s foot. It doesn’t look broken, just a little bruised. He touches the swollen area, which causes Cas to hiss.

“Sorry.”

“Are you still going to kiss it?” Cas challenges. Dean can’t tell if Cas is fucking with him or not, so he lets go of Cas’s foot and stands up.

“Dude, I wasn’t _serious_ ,” he mutters, blushing.

“You offered,” Cas sniffs.

“It’s something parents do for their kids. It doesn’t really help.”

“Your father did that for you?”

“ _Most_ parents,” Dean amends and falls back in his chair. “It’ll probably feel better by morning. Maybe your grace will kick in overnight.”

“Maybe,” Cas echoes.

* * *

Sam and Jacob swing by to ask about dinner just as Dean’s got his mouth around some dutch apple crumble, so they head down alone and agree to meet up in the morning. Despite a second round of coffee, Dean and Cas are in bed like a couple of grandpas by seven-thirty, and Dean passes out as soon as Cas switches off the light, with a full stomach and a yearning for sleep.

During the night, he wakes up to find Cas examining his foot in the dark, knee bent so he can pull his foot toward his crotch. There’s a little moonlight through the window. They didn’t bother with the curtains, but it’s bright enough to highlight the muscles in Cas’s thigh. Dean’s lazy nighttime brain fires just enough to prevent him skimming a hand over it. He props himself up on an elbow.

“You okay?”

“You kicked me,” Cas accuses.

“Sorry. You want some ice?”

Cas shakes his head. “Perhaps you should try kissing it.”

“I told you, that’s just an old wives’ tale,” Dean mutters.

But Cas is quiet, waiting. He looks down at Dean patiently. Dean rolls his eyes, leans over and plants an exaggerated kiss on the top of Cas’s foot.

“Better?” he asks, pulling off with a wet smack.

“I think it’s working.” Cas’s voice is husky. “You should do it again.”

Dean’s cheeks burn. He goes hot all over even though the room is relatively cool, but he hopes Cas can’t see in the low light.

“Yeah?” he croaks, and this is easily the weirdest shit they’ve ever done, but his mouth is on Cas’s foot again—longer this time, an open-mouthed kiss that he holds in place while his heart thumps rapidly.

“How’s that?”

Cas’s hand settles on the back of his head.

“Good,” he praises and begins to massage Dean’s neck. Dean lets his head hang, lets Cas touch him. He strokes a hand over the back of Cas’s ankle and up his calf, suctions his lips to Cas’s foot again.

His mouth is just a few inches from Cas’s dick. He can smell him, even though Cas showered—kinda musky. He’s probably got on the same boxers. All Dean would have to do is shift a little, and he could reach him, tease the front open or peel the waistband down. He could touch him; he thinks Cas would let him. He could wrap a hand around Cas and kiss him for real.

Cas’s fingers push into his hair and Dean swallows, faltering.

“Sorry I kicked you,” he offers.

“It’s alright,” Cas murmurs.

Dean lowers his mouth to Cas’s foot again, kisses the way he’d kiss Cas’s mouth. He seals his mouth against his skin and holds there instead, breathes in and out deeply. Cas tastes like unfamiliar hotel soap. Dean plants a final peck and sits back.

“Better?”

Cas nods and settles back under the covers, dissolving Dean’s nerve completely. He turns away, punching the pillow under his neck in frustration, but Cas’s hand follows him. It skims down his back to settle in the curve of Dean’s waist. Cas nestles against him, breath warm on Dean’s skin when he says, “Thank you, Dean.”

He presses his forehead into the back of Dean’s neck and is asleep within seconds.

Dean’s eyes are heavy. When he wakes again as the desert light is creeping in through the windows a few hours later, Cas is turned away from him. He wonders if he dreamed it.


	3. Chapter 3

Cas looks like shit the next morning.

 _Correction:_ Cas looks shittier than usual the next morning, the bags under his eyes puffed out so noticeably that Dean questions how much salt was in the steak rub. He brings Cas a washcloth that he runs beneath the tap and wrings out.

“Here,” he says, laying it over his eyes while he brews coffee. Cas slumps back against the pillows and coughs, rubbing at his throat.

“You don’t look so hot,” Dean comments.

“My foot still hurts,” Cas mumbles.

He thrusts it out of the sheet with an expectant look. So last night _did_ happen, which means Dean’s got about three seconds to decide if anything else will. He’s groggy and slept well. Cas’s leg is exposed from ankle to mid-thigh, sheet tented over an obvious erection. The coffee still has a couple minutes to brew, so Dean sits on the edge of the bed and takes Cas’s foot in his hands and thinks, _What the hell_.

He kisses it. He kisses Cas’s foot and his ankle. Cas shifts his hips and casts the washcloth aside. Dean’s heart thumps as he kisses an experimental trail up Cas’s calf, lingers at the inside of his knee. Cas settles a hand on the back of Dean’s head. Dean slides his palm up Cas’s thigh, fingers just breaching the hem of his boxers—he’s gonna do this. He’s thought about it so many times, but he never believed—

Holy shit, they’re actually gonna do this.

He sucks at Cas’s inner thigh until Cas knots his fingers in Dean’s hair, tugs just enough to give Dean the encouragement to move closer. He sucks a second bruise halfway between his knee and his crotch, a third at the edge of his boxers, nose brushing the fabric. Cas makes a choked noise when Dean slips a hand inside the front and wraps it around his dick.

It’s good. They should’ve done this years ago. Why the hell didn’t they do this years ago? He moves his hand in a slow up-and-down motion. Cas is hot as fuck with his mouth dropped open, hair bed-tousled, fingers wrenching Dean’s hair. Dean twists his wrist on the upstroke and Cas whines.

Dean’s never done this with another guy before, but it’s easy. He likes it. He wonders why he ever thought he wouldn’t, not when Cas’s chest is flushed red and he’s gazing at Dean through glazed eyes, moaning when Dean swipes his thumb over the head. It’s slick. He massages his thumb in a circle and wets his lips before taking a breath and leaning in to take Cas in his mouth.

The coffee pot beeps twice to indicate it’s done brewing. Cas’s hand stills in Dean’s hair, and Dean freezes. He looks up, lips just an inch from his target.

“Coffee?” he offers stupidly, brain protesting this very-wrong redirection because his hand is on Cas’s dick.

“Alright,” Cas says, untangling his fingers from Dean’s hair, but he doesn’t look discouraged. He smiles fondly, blushing when Dean extracts his hand and sits up. Dean turns away with flaming cheeks and wipes his hand on his boxers. He pours them both a cup of coffee and awkwardly thrusts one at Cas.

“Thank you,” Cas says and drinks.

Dean downs half a cup. It scalds his mouth, but it’s better than stilted conversation. He makes a weak gesture toward the bathroom, showers in record time, brushes his teeth. He holds the towel firmly on his waist, uncharacteristically modest when Cas looks up and catches his eye.

He still looks awful, despite a cup of coffee and a cold compress. His color is off, like he’s coming down with something, and there’s that cough again—dry and scratchy, like Cas can’t catch his breath. Didn’t Sammy tell him something about a cough when Cas’s grace was fading?

“You okay?” he asks, frowning.

“I feel strange,” Cas admits. “Weak.”

“You need a good breakfast. Let’s head downstairs, get you some eggs and bacon.”

Cas presses his lips together, cupping his hands around his coffee mug. He looks down. Dean wonders if he’s upset, given what just happened. _Almost_ happened.

“How ‘bout I bring you something back here,” he offers. He perches on the edge of the bed. “You feel like anything in particular?”

Cas licks his lips, eyes flickering up to Dean’s mouth.

“You can have that too,” Dean says, swallowing. “If you want.”

“Yes,” Cas says, meeting his eyes. “But I’ll come with you.”

“Not still hiding from Jacob?”

Cas shakes his head but maintains eye contact. “I’m going to wear your clothes again,” he tells Dean, trailing a hand down his arm, then sliding back up. There’s something possessive about it that makes Dean take a sharp breath.

“You look good like that,” he murmurs, “in my clothes.”

His heart flutters as Cas smiles lazily and squeezes Dean’s shoulder.

“Good.”

* * *

Sam can’t stop staring at them over breakfast. Dean deposits Cas at the table, gets him more coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs and french toast before he goes back to help himself. He loads up on protein: ham steak and bacon and sausage, and a generous helping of home fries.

“Try these potatoes,” he says, holding his fork out to Cas. They’re seated so close their shoulders touch. Dean figures “fuck it” and loops an arm around his back.

“Dean—”

“Trust me,” Dean says, prodding at Cas’s lips, so Cas does, with his eyes on Dean the whole time. He makes a satisfied noise and nods in appreciation.

Sam brings the whole coffee carafe to the table, and Dean pours his third—fourth?—cup for the day before sliding the carafe to Jacob, who yawns on a loop. Cas is practically asleep on Dean’s shoulder by the time they’re finished eating, plate pushed back and half his food uneaten.

“You know, maybe we should get him out of here,” Sam says, wearing his concerned squint.

“Where am I supposed to take him?” Dean counters as Cas wraps his hands around Dean’s on his thigh.

“I passed several hotels on my way here, maybe an hour away,” Jacob says, cleaning his mouth. He drops the wadded-up napkin on his plate. “Maybe just removing him from the property would help.”

“You want me to ditch Cas in a hotel?”

“We’ve done it before,” Sam reminds him.

“That was a little different,” Dean says. “He was regaining his mojo.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Cas says into Dean’s shirt.

“See?” Dean says. “He doesn’t want to go.”

“I’m no expert,” Jacob says, “but if the drain in my equipment is any indication of what this place is capable of, I’d recommend all of us get out of here ASAP. Especially him.”

“Cas, man,” Sam says, cranking his wounded-puppy mode up to eleven. “I know you want to help, but we’ve been here for less than forty-eight hours, and you already look about as well as you sounded when...”

He trails off, but Cas appears to understand his meaning.

“I suppose,” he says.

“Why don’t you take the car?” Sam suggests. “Drive until you feel better.”

“Our phones don’t work,” Cas says. “How am I supposed to get in touch with you?”

“He’s got a point,” Dean says.

“Well, then, you drive him,” Sam says. “That way, you’ll know where he is. Get him set up someplace safe, and we’ll pick him up on the way home. Cas, are you okay with that?”

He nods into Dean’s neck.

* * *

Cas says goodbye to Jacob and hugs Sam, saying he’ll see him back in Kansas. He and Dean go upstairs to pack Cas’s things. Cas yawns the whole time and curls up in one of the arm chairs while Dean throws the few things Cas brought into the duffel bag.

“Can’t believe you brought this,” he huffs, balling up the blanket. He stuffs it in and zips the bag closed.

“It smells like you,” Cas murmurs, drawing his coat around him. Dean experiences a bubbling in his chest, the swell of something powerful.

“We’ll be home soon,” he promises, helping him up. Cas leans against his chest, curling his fingers into Dean’s shirt.

“And we’ll find a pet store.”

“Huh?”

“For my guinea pig. I’d like to keep it in my old bedroom.”

“Your...old bedroom?”

Cas leans back enough to study Dean’s face. “Our lives are unpredictable. We’ve wasted enough time.”

“So, you wanna...you and me?”

“Yes,” Cas says.

Dean swallows and kisses the side of Cas’s face as he pulls him close again. “Yeah, alright,” he says after a minute.

Cas breathes in against his shoulder. “I was jealous,” he says.

“Cas, I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright.”

The duffel bag sits at their feet, holding a blanket. “How long?”

“Years,” Cas admits. “I thought it would be enough to see you happy. But he looks like me. I couldn’t rationalize how I felt.”

Dean nods against his hair.

“And to think you _wanted_ him, when you didn’t want me...”

“Hey.” Dean squeezes him. “Let’s get you out of here, okay?”

He kisses Cas’s temple, almost gets his eye. Cas smiles, eyes crinkling, and noses Dean’s neck. Dean keeps an arm around him down the stairs and across the lobby.

The desk clerk smiles at him. “Everything alright?”

“Just taking a drive,” Dean calls back and opens the door for Cas, who teeters on his feet. He winks at the bellhop.

“Couple more minutes, buddy, hang on,” he says, hastening toward the Impala. He unlocks the passenger’s door and gets Cas settled, climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the key.

The engine doesn’t turn over. He tries again, but nothing happens. The starter doesn’t make a sound. It should be fine; he just replaced it last year, and Baby hasn’t given him any trouble starting. They haven’t been here long enough for her battery to die, unless—unless this place can drain car batteries the way it’s draining all of them.

“Stay here,” he says, keeping his voice light. “I’m going to borrow Jacob’s keys.”

“What’s the matter?” Cas asks.

“I need a jump,” Dean says. “No big deal.”

But the jump doesn’t work, because Jacob’s rental won’t start either. Sam bites his lip, stares at the road leading up to the hotel.

“Guess we could walk,” he says.

“You kidding me?” Dean says, glancing at Cas, who is still seated in the Impala, dozing against the window.

Sam throws out his arms. “What other option do we have, Dean?”

“It’s possible his energy will return, once you get far enough away.”

“What about you two?” Dean asks.

“We’ll just wait here,” Jacob says. “Who knows, maybe we’ll solve the case while you’re gone.”

“Go back in,” Dean instructs. “Before they think something’s up.”

Jacob nods. Sam looks apprehensive, but they jog back inside.

“Come on, cupcake,” Dean says to coax Cas out of the car. “We’ve gotta make a run for it.”

Cas doesn’t argue, lets Dean pull him up and out, guide him toward the edge of the gravel parking lot. His steps grow sluggish as they near the road, to the point where Cas is literally dragging his feet. He stops and rubs his eyes, shakes his foot out, like it’s betrayed him.

“Just a little bit further,” Dean urges, hoping that Jacob is right, that even a short distance away from the building will be enough to break the connection between Cas and whatever is draining him. With just a few steps to go, Cas gasps like his air passages are blocked. He makes a horrible gurgling noise in his throat and stumbles, nearly knocking both of them to the ground.

“You okay?” Dean asks. Cas nods in response, teeth gritted. He takes another step, then another. Underfoot, the ground changes from gravel to asphalt. Cas hisses, then moans and clutches his stomach, falling to his knees like he’s been shot.

“Cas?” Dean shouts, scrambling to catch him before he falls. He lowers him to the ground. Cas is clammy, fumbling for Dean’s hands and shaking.

“Get me back inside,” he whispers, and even though Dean wants to keep going, even though every instinct tells him they have to get as far away from this place as possible, he does. He helps Cas up, helps him limp across the parking lot into the lobby, and deposits him in a chair next to the window.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks, checking him over. Cas’s skin is off color, his body trembling, but there is no injury to his stomach, no sign of an impact.

Cas coughs. “They’re keeping me here.”

“How’s that possible? You’re a frigging angel!”

“With another angel’s grace.”

“We should get you in bed.” Dean glances around the lobby. “Then I’ll go find Sammy.”

“Alright.” Cas grips Dean’s arm so tightly, he might as well leave another impression.

* * *

“So it was like a barrier?” Sam asks, pacing the suite. His boots make a dragging sound on the carpet.

“Yes,” Cas says through a cough. “I presume it runs the perimeter of the property.”

“Did you feel it?” Sam asks Dean, who is seated next to Cas on the bed. Cas has the blankets over his legs even though he’s fully dressed. He’s still holding Dean’s hand.

“No,” Dean replies.

“The three of you should leave,” Cas says, strained but determined.

“You’re gonna do the thing where you shut the hell up,” Dean tells him, squeezing his fingers. “We’re not leaving you here.”

“One death is preferable to four.”

“Cas, we appreciate it,” Sam says, “but we’re going to figure this out.”

“There was an EM surge a few minutes ago, probably when you touched the barrier,” Jacob says, scrolling through readings on his phone.

“Where did it originate?” Sam asks.

“Here in the hotel,” Jacob answers. “I think we’re right, that whatever is powering this is here.”

They’re quiet for a while.

“Think this is how they do it?” Sam asks, running a finger along the window coverings. “Keep us here until we die?”

“The ghosts are young,” Dean says, shaking his head.

“You think they killed them?” Jacob asks.

“Possible,” Dean replies. There’s a lull where they accept what that means, crowned by another cough from Cas. He shivers like he’s cold, even though he’s beneath two blankets and his skin feels warm to the touch.

“I thought it would be the grace that kills me,” Cas murmurs.

“Nothing’s killing you. You hear?”

“Facts would indicate otherwise.”

“Facts can blow me,” Dean says. He cups Cas’s cheek, self-conscious because Sam and Jacob are in the room. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told you in Purgatory: I’m not leaving here without you.”

“I think we both remember what happened in Purgatory,” Cas says quietly.

“There’s no portal you can shove my ass through this time. You’re coming with us, and that’s final. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

Jacob is wearing a confused expression. “I’m sorry, Purgatory? Is that a metaphor?”

“It’s a location,” Cas says.

“Ah,” Jacob comments and sits back.

“They were stuck there for a year,” Sam says. “It’s a long story.”

“And you’re an angel.” Jacob looks at Cas, who nods gravely. “So, is Hell real too?”

“That’s where we met.” Dean gestures his thumb toward Cas.

“Sure, why not,” sighs Jacob.

“Look,” Sam says, stopping in front of the fireplace. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to split up any longer. I vote we stay in a group. Harder to pick us off that way.”

“Might as well crash in here,” Dean says. “We’ve got plenty of floor space.”

“I agree,” Sam says. “Then we only have to maintain one salt perimeter.”

“They haven’t tried to attack us,” Cas points out.

“Not yet.”

“Probably takes a couple days,” Dean says. “They drain you enough so you can’t fight back, can’t leave. Hell, maybe people off themselves.”

“I can’t think straight,” Sam says, rubbing his eyes. “Coffee’s already wearing off.”

“We’ve got a machine,” Dean says, pointing at it. Sam bounds across the room. “Though I might’ve used all the regular this morning,” Dean calls after him.

“There’s a packet left,” Sam says, tearing it open.

“That ain’t gonna cut it.”

“There were coffee supplies in all of the guest rooms we searched yesterday,” Cas recalls.

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Dean says. “We can live off the ones from this floor for a couple days.”

“I hate to sound callous,” Jacob cuts in, “but how are we supposed to find a way out of here if he can’t get out of bed?”

“We’ll go back over what we know,” Sam says. The coffee machine gurgles. “I’m not thinking clearly. It’s possible we missed something. You’ve got the photographs from the office on your phone?”

Jacob nods. “They don’t show anything,” he says.

“Still,” Sam continues, yawning.

“I’m surprised you two don’t travel with energy pills,” Jacob says, stifling a yawn of his own.

“I get four hours, I’m good,” Dean replies. “Usually.”

“Energy pills?” Cas repeats.

“No,” Dean commands. “Not for you, not ever.”

In response, Cas frowns but drops his head to Dean’s shoulder.

“How much salt do we have left?” Sam asks.

“Half a tin under the bed. There’s more in the trunk.”

“We should be good for the night,” Sam says.

“We can’t risk one more night,” Dean argues. “I vote we ransack the neighboring rooms, transform this room into a Starbucks. Cas, are you good for a couple minutes?”

“You just said we shouldn’t split up,” Sam challenges.

“Cas is staying in the room. We’ll leave him one shotgun. Anything happens, he’s within shouting range.”

“I’ll be fine,” Cas says.

They hit the adjacent rooms first.

“Minibar. Jackpot,” Dean declares, dropping to the ground next to it. He stuffs his pockets full of dry-roasted peanuts and puny $5 granola bars—the skinny kind with clear wrappers. Jacob tucks coffee packets into his jacket that he has zipped up halfway like a pouch.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, kneeling down beside him.

“What?”

“We need to get Jacob out of here.”

“I’m trying to get us all out of here.”

“I mean if it doesn’t work,” Sam clarifies, glancing at Jacob, who isn’t paying attention to them.

Dean makes a decision. “If it doesn’t work, you’re leaving too.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“Well, I’m not...” Dean trails off, unable to say it. Sam gives him a sympathetic look.

“I know,” he says.

Dean slams the cabinet door and gets up, nodding to the hallway. “Let’s hit a couple others,” he says. “Then head back. I want to get the hell out of here before nightfall.”

When they return to the room, Cas isn’t alone. That maid, Alma, is standing at the end of the bed with her hands at her sides, chin dipped toward her chest.

“Please let my friends go,” Cas says, shotgun clutched in his hands.

“It’s not that bad,” she promises. “You might be happy here.”

“Hey, Casper,” Dean shouts from the door. He fires a salt round and she vanishes. He lowers the gun and barks, “Why didn’t you fire?”

“She didn’t mean any harm,” Cas says, coughing. He lays the shotgun aside and lies down, the look on his face so miserable that Dean’s anger falters. He goes to the coffee machine and starts a new pot.

Jacob sits in the salt circle and spreads out his notes in an arc around his knees. Sammy crouches next to him, and they point at EM readings, scratch their collective chins over the entries in the old guest registries.

“Anybody named Rodney?” Dean asks, turning to look at them over his shoulder. “Early ’60s.”

Jacob thumbs through several photographs on his phone before shaking his head.

“No,” he says.

“What about Alma?” Cas asks. “In 1972.”

“Uh...” Jacob says, pinching an image to enlarge it. “Yeah. Alma Espinoza. Checked in August second for one night. She paid cash.”

“Is there anything different about her entry?” Sam asks, holding out a hand for the phone.

“No,” Jacob says. Then, “Well—unless this is an asterisk.”

He points to a spot in the ledger.

“Maybe,” Sam says sluggishly, then shakes his head like it will clear the exhaustion. “What does it mean, though?”

“Beats me,” Jacob says. “This whole case is a picture hung crooked.”

Dean pours a cup of coffee and positions himself on the edge of the bed. He thumbs through the photographs of the parking lot he took with his phone as he waits for the coffee to cool. He's still got no signal, battery blinking to indicate a low level. Cas is watching. Dean smiles down at him.

“It’ll be easier to see details on my laptop,” Sam tells Dean, catching his eye.

Dean looks at him like Sam has grown another head.

“Bluetooth transfer?” Sam says.

Dean blinks.

“Make your phone discoverable,” Jacob says, sliding the laptop next to him and clicking a few times. When Dean blinks again, stupidly, Jacob holds out his hand, palm up. “Here,” he says.

Dean scowls and doesn’t hand him the phone.

“Dean,” Cas mutters, curling his fingers around the edge of the pillow. “Just give it to him.”

Jacob does something in the Settings menu, and soon all of Dean’s photographs are in a folder on the laptop. And then he has a mild panic, because how far back did Jacob go? He doesn’t use the camera feature often and isn’t certain that the phone is free of content that could either prove his marriage is a sham or paint him to be a World Class Jackass of a husband. At least he’s always kept his porn watching to Sam’s laptop and good ol’ skin mags. That’s something.

But Jacob doesn’t examine Dean’s photo collection, just hands the laptop up to him and Cas. Dean sits back against the headboard, sets it on his thighs. Cas rearranges himself so that he’s leaning into Dean’s side and shoulder. Dean rests a cheek against his hair and starts with the first pictures he took.

Nothing new about the cars stands out to him. There are nineteen, plus Baby, parked in three rows. Baby’s the only one parked a little crooked.

“There are three chimneys,” Cas comments, reaching out to still Dean’s hand. He coughs and wipes his eyes, pointing to the screen.

“So?”

“What does the third one belong to?”

“Well, there’s the one in the lobby, and the one in here, so there must be one in another room.”

“We searched all the rooms,” Cas points out.

“Must’ve been in the ones Sammy searched,” Dean says, looking at him.

“Uh,” Sam says, tilting his chin up to think. “Actually, no. They were all like mine—a little different in size, but no fireplace.”

“It’s probably fake,” Jacob says without looking up. “To balance out the architecture.”

“Ah,” Cas comments, nodding. “That makes sense.”

“There are other asterisks in the ledger,” Jacob says. “William Gibbs, 1965.” He flips forward a few pages. “Sarah Duke, 1975.”

“The bellhop’s name is William,” Sam offers.

Jacob taps the book. “How much you wanna bet there are nineteen of them between the ledgers?”

“Yeah, but why them?”

“Maybe it liked their cars,” Dean suggests.

Sam glares at him. “Dean, I’m too tired for this.”

“Hear me out,” Dean says. “Everything in that parking lot is a collector’s item, in freaking mint condition, all of ’em dating within a decade of one another. We roll up in a ’67 Impala and suddenly we’re not able to leave. Maybe it wants the car.”

“Maybe you need to drink more coffee,” Sam suggests.

“Something is maintaining them,” Dean goes on. He spins the laptop around. “Look. No bird shit, no dust, even though we’re in the middle of the desert.”

“He has a point,” Jacob says.

“The whole hotel is in good condition,” Sam argues. “Not just the parking lot.”

“Well, we _searched_ the whole hotel and came up with zilch,” Dean says.

“And _you_ searched the parking lot.”

“Yeah,” Dean admits, rubbing a hand over his face. “There wasn’t a damned thing in any one of them.”

“No hidden compartments?”

Dean clears his throat and looks at the wall.

“You didn’t open them?” Sam asks.

“I thought they belonged to the other guests!” Dean snaps. “I didn’t know they were dead at the time. And I was a little preoccupied with the whole...” He wags a finger between Cas and Jacob.

Sam makes a frustrated noise and covers his face.

“Look, we’re all tired,” Jacob cuts in. “Let’s just go look.”

“I agree,” says Cas.

“You should stay here,” Dean tells him.

“I’m coming with you,” Cas says with conviction and swings his legs off the bed.

They attempt nonchalance as they mosey through the lobby. Sam loiters next to a stack of magazines while Dean and Cas make a beeline for the exit, with Jacob on their heels. The bellhop looks after them with suspicion but doesn’t follow. He tips his hat.

Sam gets a crowbar from the Impala’s trunk and makes for the Bel Air, but Dean stops him, taking it from him before he can exact damage.

“I’m gonna hurl,” Dean says, passing the crowbar between his hands and staring down at the blue paint. “It’s gonna fuck up the finish.”

“Just do it,” Sam snaps.

Dean winces but jimmies the trunk open, grimacing when the crowbar slips and nicks the paint. He steps back, rubbing his chin and staring down at a grinning skeleton in a suit.

“Well, that’s...that’s appetizing.”

“That’s disgusting,” Jacob says and turns away, gagging.

“Bet there’s one in every trunk,” Sam says.

It reminds Dean of an Egyptian tomb, the way the body is surrounded by personal possessions: a yellowing road map, a red umbrella, a leather suitcase with a broken handle.

“So, what are we doing, making a burn pile?” he asks.

“There isn’t time,” Cas murmurs. He nods toward the building. “Look.”

Dean looks up to see a line of figures standing just outside the door. They don’t advance, just stand still, watching.

“We gotta burn the cars,” Sam mutters.

“Dude, no,” Dean says. “Do you know how much money’s sitting in this lot?”

“We don’t have time to empty out each one,” Sam counters through his teeth. “Do you have your lighter?”

“How ’bout I haul the bodies out while you hold ’em off,” Dean suggests.

“And we miss a finger bone that gets stuck under the carpet? Burning the cars is the only way to destroy everything.” He holds out the salt and hastily shakes it over the body, thrusts out his hand for the lighter. “Come on, come on!” he hisses.

Dean reluctantly flips open the lighter and flicks it until it sparks.

“Oh, Baby, don’t look,” he groans and sets the skeleton ablaze.

As the trunk is consumed by fire, a man two places from the door bursts into flames. It’s the bellhop. A gust of wind howls across the parking lot. The bellhop angles his head up and flickers out.

The wind stops. Cas murmurs a prayer.

“Shit,” Dean says. He presses his shotgun into Cas’s hands. Sam hands his to Jacob with a grim expression.

“They’re going to advance,” Sam says. “You hold them off best you can.”

Cas nods. Jacob’s eyes are wide, but he clutches the gun to his chest and cocks it.

“Aim it that way,” Dean orders. “Don’t point that thing at me.”

“Sorry,” Jacob says, turning toward the hotel.

“Ready?” Dean says to Sam. He pulls a second crowbar out of Baby’s trunk, a second box of salt, and Sam takes out his lighter. Dean patently doesn’t look at the Impala.

He burns the Stingray—a goddamn shame, and chokes back a cry when Sam burns the Barracuda and the Cobra. The wind picks up, increasing until Dean has to squint to keep his eyes open, turn his face away from the blast of heat, stench of burning rubber and remains. It gusts so hard it stings, whipping sand into his eyes. Every few seconds, he glances over his shoulder just long enough to check the position of the ghosts, but they don’t move.

“Why aren’t they trying to stop us?” he yells to Sam, who shrugs and lights the 442 on fire. Dean feels something irreparably break inside.

“Beats me,” Sam shouts back. “Eight more.”

It only takes seconds once he has a trunk open: purify, light, burn. One by one, the ghosts turn to flames and go out. When he comes to the final car, Dean turns in time to see Alma. She’s the only ghost remaining. She is looking in Cas’s direction and raises a hand in farewell. The wind pitches to a shriek. Dean is sure Alma closes her eyes before her light goes out.

A scream rises, seemingly from the inside of the hotel and rushes out at them, through them, past the boundaries of the hotel property. Dean braces against it, holding tightly to Cas’s arm. Cas buries his face in Dean’s jacket, protected from the wind. The screaming fades into the desert and doesn’t echo.

Dean heaves in a breath, letting the crowbar drop to the dirt. Jacob still holds the shotgun to his shoulder, pointing it with shaky hands at an empty portico. Cas seems mesmerized, staring at the place where Alma just stood, his hands balled in Dean’s shirt. It’s a minute before he raises his chin.

“I think they wanted to leave,” he says. His hair is dusty. Dean smooths it down.

“One of them must’ve been holding the others here,” Sam says.

“That’s possible?” Jacob asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says, taking the shotgun from him. “Sometimes a stronger spirit can prevent others from moving on.”

“Why didn’t they just tell us to help them?”

“It’s not that easy,” Sam says. “They can feel loyalty to the thing keeping them here, even if it’s against their will.”

“Like Stockholm Syndrome,” Jacob says.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Exactly.”

“How’re you feeling?” Dean asks Cas.

“Better,” he replies, stepping back a foot. “It’s easier to breathe.”

“I feel more awake,” Sam says. “I mean, it might be just adrenaline, but I don’t think so.”

“Think we got it?” Dean asks.

“We burned all the cars,” Sam says. “No more ghosts.”

“I have no EM reading,” Jacob reports. “Needle is at zero.” He scratches his head. “Kind of anticlimactic, actually.”

“It’s a goddamn tragedy,” Dean laments, looking over the smoldering remains. He backs up and leans against the Impala’s hood.

“I’m sure Baby forgives you,” Sam consoles him.

“I prefer the Impala,” Cas adds, settling next to Dean.

“Yeah, me too, buddy,” Dean says. He pats Cas’s knee and squeezes, turns his head to smile at him.

Cas is looking at him softly. It’d be easy to kiss him. They haven’t done that yet. Dean’s had a hand in Cas’s pants and left hickeys on his thighs, but he’s never just put his mouth on Cas’s mouth. He licks his lips, breath catching when Cas licks his in response. His heart begins to pound as a whining fills his ears.

He doesn’t care that his little brother is a couple feet away—not anymore—or that a freaky Cas look-a-like is watching them. Dean wants to kiss him, and Cas wants him to do it. Well, he’s thirty-six years old. It’s about freaking time he did something for himself. He lets his eyes drop to Cas’s mouth, smiles, and leans in.

“Think there’s anything in the kitchen?” Sam muses, which blows the moment to hell. “I could use some lunch before we head home.”

“I hope so,” Jacob says. “I’m starving.”

Cas and Dean catch eyes and laugh, then look away from each other quickly. Which is stupid, considering Jacob thinks they’re married and Sam has probably figured out—well, whatever the reason, it’s stupid, but Dean climbs off the car and offers a hand. Cas holds it all the way to the door.

When they get inside, Sam and Jacob head straight for the dining room, but Dean lingers a few steps behind. He touches the collar of Cas’s jacket, sliding his finger underneath his lapel.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Cas nods, leaning in like he’s going to kiss Dean, or press their foreheads together, but he drops his face to Dean’s shoulder instead. Dean is about to embrace him, maybe do something sappy like kiss his temple when Cas curls both hands into Dean’s shirt and shoves him backwards into the wall.

He kisses like he fights: righteously, completely. His hands are inside Dean’s jacket, teasing his sides through his shirt, sliding underneath until there’s just a t-shirt between them, before Cas’s hands are on his back, palms scorching against his bare skin. Dean’s always thought Cas would be a careful, sweet lover, but he’s consuming Dean’s mouth, groaning his name.

Dean’s back is between a bookshelf and an oversized still life. Cas’s hands are down his pants, gripping his ass, prompting Dean to murmur, “Cas—Sammy’s right around the corner. We should take this upstairs.”

But Cas shakes his head and continues to kiss him until Dean is drunk on it, pinned against the wall and grinding forward onto Cas’s thigh. How does Cas know to kiss like this? It must be all that book knowledge. Metatron probably downloaded every damn romance novel into his head. Bless that crazy fucking bastard—at least he did one good thing.

They’ve got plenty of time for this, once they get back to Kansas, but Dean’s head is spinning. He could’ve lost Cas today, but he didn’t. He’s whispering pleas into Cas’s mouth, clutching the front of his coat, widening his stance so he can practically ride Cas’s leg. The pressure’s starting to build in a torturous, aching way—he’s gonna come in his jeans like a horny freaking kid, but who cares. They’ve been playing at this for too long. He has more jeans. The push and drag is painful; he catches himself against his zipper and hisses, but Cas drops his mouth to Dean’s throat with a groan.

Dean’s head is back against the woodwork and his eyes are closed. Electricity courses through every part of him, sparking into his fingers, down his legs. Everything begins to tighten—

That’s when Sammy decides to interrupt.

He shouts, “Guys. Are you _coming_?” across the lobby, which is the worst accidental pun ever. Dean’s already there and does with a gasp, stilling his movements, and _jesus_ —he hopes Sammy didn’t hear that.

Cas bites the skin on his neck gently, then licks it, whispering, “You taste good.”

“Fuck,” Dean pants, cracking open his eyes. Cas is smiling at him.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asks, fingers tight around Cas’s lapels.

“I believe that was sex,” Cas says, amused.

His bluntness makes Dean laugh. Cas collapses against his front, tucking his face into Dean’s neck and sighing contentedly. Dean holds him, shifting as the mess in his boxers begins to cool.

“I gotta get cleaned up,” he murmurs. Then, feeling bold, he adds, “You, uh. You wanna come upstairs with me?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “But I’m going to eat. And I prefer the water pressure in the bunker.”

“Alright,” Dean says, untangling himself. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Cas chuckles and does some mojo flick of his fingers, rendering Dean’s boxers instantly dry. He holds out a hand and smirks.

“Showoff,” Dean mutters but takes it.

* * *

“I guess this will all go to waste now,” Sam laments, glancing around the kitchen. Every surface gleams: stainless steel commercial refrigerator, long white countertops. Sam’s eating an omelet stuffed with an entire head of lettuce. At least Jacob had the sense to fry up bacon and eggs, which Dean eats with abandon.

“Shame,” he says through a full mouth. “I’m starting to like this place.”

“I wonder what will happen to it,” Jacob says. He pours a glass of orange juice and passes the carafe. Dean drinks straight from it.

“Gross,” Sam lectures.

“Dude, it’s not like anyone else will be staying here,” Dean says. “We oughta pack everything we can carry. There’s enough food here for six months.”

“We could take some of the canned goods,” Sam considers.

“Too bad we don’t have a cooler,” Dean says. “They had enough steak to keep me satisfied for a few weeks.”

Jacob chuckles. “Are you headed back to Kansas?” he asks.

“Probably,” Sam says between bites. “I haven’t been able to research cases since we got here, so we don’t have anything lined up. What about you?”

Jacob shrugs and pops a grape into his mouth. “I dunno,” he says. “Think I might take a break from ghost hunting for a while.”

“Back to aliens on the moon, huh?” Dean asks.

The glare Jacob shoots him could level one of Cas’s. Dean grins and snaps a piece of bacon in half.

“Alright,” he announces, folding the bacon in his mouth. “I’m gonna go pack up our stuff. Meet you guys back in the lobby.”

“Do you need help?” Cas asks.

“I’m good,” Dean promises and pecks him on the cheek.

The hotel feels different as he walks through it. It’s not just the emptiness that strikes him but an actual shift in the air. He’s alone in this hallway; no one is watching him. He unlocks the room and leaves the door wide open, quickly throws his things into a bag, and grabs his toothbrush. He switches on his phone and heads back downstairs, stopping halfway to run back for the bottle of champagne in the fridge. He and Cas can put that to good use later.

While Sam and Jacob go to pack, Cas and Dean make good use of the expensive chair next to the fire, and Dean returns the favor from earlier. Cas flushes a pretty pink and keeps his eyes open the whole time; they glow a little blue when he’s at his peak. He worships at Dean’s mouth.

They reluctantly separate when Dean hears Jacob’s footsteps approaching. They’re too light and too quick to be Sam’s.

“I’ll have to catch your pod things,” Dean tells him as he takes a seat across from them. Jacob looks confused for a few seconds, then laughs.

“My podcast. Yeah, I’d love your opinion. Thanks.”

“You did good, man. Most people would’ve freaked out.”

“When you witness a two-hundred-foot pyramid rise out of the ground within a matter of seconds, it changes your perspective.”

“I bet.”

“Still,” Jacob continues. “I think I’ll stick with government conspiracy for a while.”

Dean gets his number, and they’re shaking hands when Sam comes downstairs with an expectant grin.

“Ready?” he asks.

Cas opens the door.

Correction: Cas attempts to open the door, but it won’t budge.

“Is it locked?” Dean asks, fiddling with the handles. The latches operate smoothly, but the doors won’t push outward, like something is shoved up against them. He elbows Cas. “Just...do your thing.”

Cas does, with no effect. Jacob’s meter beeps in his pocket and Cas promptly collapses to the floor. Dean helps him to sit up. Cas motions to his chest and wheezes.

“Hard...to breathe.”

“We didn’t get them all,” Sam says unnecessarily.

“You think?” Dean snaps. “I say we torch this place, get the fuck out of here.”

“There has to be somewhere we haven’t looked.”

“What, under the foundation? We can’t dig this place up, Sammy.”

“If we don’t purify the remains, they might not move on, and then what?” Sam snaps. “Listen—what was it Cas said earlier, about chimneys? You said there was a third one.”

Cas nods. “It mirrors ours,” he says.

“How much you want to bet there was a second suite once?” Sam asks.

Dean considers this. “You think they walled it off?”

“Maybe it wasn’t worth having two,” Sam says. “Doubt it fills up much. Why else would they comp you an upgrade?”

“Alright,” Dean says. He nudges Cas’s side. “Can you walk?”

“I think so,” Cas says. Dean helps him to his feet. He and Sam keep an arm around him up the staircase, up to the third floor. They walk in the opposite direction of the suite, to the supply closet at the end of the hall.

The door is marked “Employees Only.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Dean mutters.

He rips it open, revealing the same contents they rifled through yesterday. Sam pulls out the vacuum and the mops, then kicks at the base of the wall. His foot goes through it easily. Dean joins, and working in tandem, they create a person-sized hole big enough for them to fit through.

“After you,” he says, motioning Sam forward. Sam switches on a flashlight.

“Why the hell would you convert a suite into a freaking maintenance closet?” Dean mutters, crawling behind him.

“I think,” Sam begins. “Uh. Well, you’ll see.”

The room beyond the wall is from another time, layered in gray dust and cobwebs. Dean’s nose tickles; he sneezes into his sleeve and holds out a hand to help Jacob through, then Cas. They brush dust from their clothes.

There is very little light through the window, which is obscured by a large wardrobe, a heavy curtain swagged across the left pane of glass. The fireplace is cold. The bed, just as large as the one he and Cas have been sharing, holds the skeletal remains of a person and a dip in the bed where another person might fit.

Dean scratches his chin. “Is this a little too _Rose for Emily_ for anyone else?”

“What?” Sam asks.

“Faulkner? Really? And you got into Stanford,” Dean scoffs. “Salt?”

Sam holds up the tin, then grunts and falls to his knees. Rodney appears behind him with an apologetic expression.

“You,” Dean accuses.

Rodney holds up his hands and opens his mouth, but Cas blasts him with rock salt before he speaks. He dissipates into white smoke that curls against the floor, then sinks into it. Jacob helps Sam up and nods toward the bed.

“May I?” he asks, taking the box. He sprinkles salt over the body. Dean flicks open his lighter but it doesn’t ignite.

“Sonofabitch,” he curses and tries again. “Must be out of fluid. Sammy, give me yours,” he orders. But Sam has his lighter out and is flicking it with no results.

“Something’s rotten in Denmark,” Jacob mutters, but the fear in his voice is plain.

“I can’t hold her off,” Rodney says, re-materializing next to the fireplace. “I’m sorry.”

“Can’t hold who off?” Dean demands.

“This place,” he says.

“You’re telling me this building is sentient?”

“I found it abandoned,” Rodney explains. “I gave it life again. I—I think I stirred something up, something that attached itself to me.”

“The renovation photographs we found,” Sam says. “Those are yours.”

“Yes,” Rodney says. “My plan was to renovate the building, put it up for sale, but she had other plans.”

“It _kept_ you here?” Dean asks, opening his eyes wider.

Rodney nods. “She’s not what you think. She cares about me, tries to surround me with things that will make me happy.”

“Like the cars?” Dean asks.

“The cars,” Rodney repeats, and Dean gives Sam a smug look before Rodney adds, “The people.”

Dean opens both eyes wider and tries the lighter again. “You know, most people don’t give other people as gifts,” he says, stepping closer to the bed. He flicks the lighter again, and again.

“I didn’t want her to,” Rodney implores. “I asked her to stop.”

“Why us?”

“No one has been through here in months, almost a year,” he says. “The others—many of them wanted to leave, but they weren’t able. She sensed that I admired your car, said that you were powerful.” He motions to Cas. “She fed off of you. She hasn’t been this strong in decades.”

“Oh, well that’s great,” Dean says and flicks the lighter again.

“I’m sorry,” Rodney repeats. “If I had the power to let you go, I would, but you would have to destroy what remains of her.” His eyes dart to the wardrobe and away. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow, catches Sam’s eye and nods. Sam walks backwards toward the wardrobe. It creaks open, revealing an old red uniform. The fabric appears moth-eaten, limp on its hanger. The floor begins to vibrate underfoot.

“The rest of her things are gone,” Rodney says. “That’s all that’s left.”

“Why this?” Sam asks. He removes the uniform from its hanger and carries it back to the bed, laying it next to Rodney’s remains.

“This is where she was happiest,” Rodney says. “I think she hoped I would be too, but I never stopped trying to leave.”

The vibrating grows more intense, and a breeze stirs the curtains, blowing cold through the room even through the window is shut. It gusts toward them, just as it did in the parking lot.

“Dude, you can’t force people to love you,” Dean shouts into it, shoving Cas behind him. “If you really gave a shit about him, you’d let him go.”

There is no response, but the room begins to quake. A clock falls from the mantle; the wardrobe doors rattle. Dean keeps his hand wrapped around Cas’s wrist.

“This ain’t love,” Dean continues. “This is kidnapping. You murdered people.”

With that, the wind screams, barreling toward him. It strikes him in the gut like a well-aimed punch. He falters, stumbling backwards into Cas, who loses his footing. Dean lands on top of him with an “oomph.”

They scramble to their feet. There is a face in the wind, a young woman with bright-red lips and a pleasant expression. She steps out of the vortex, and the wind dies momentarily. Cas blasts her with rock salt, but she merely flickers and continues her approach.

“It’s the desk clerk,” Sam mutters and throws his keys at her. She blips like a TV station, eyes glinting as they pull back into focus.

“I’m sorry,” Rodney moans but doesn’t assist them.

“Keep hitting her,” Dean orders, so they blast her with every round they’ve got, but each one buys them only seconds. When he’s out, he curses and throws the shotgun onto the floor, flicks and flicks the lighter to no avail.

She holds out a hand and Cas begins to gag. Dean tries to shield him with his own body, but it doesn’t do any good. She’s draining whatever grace he’s got left, literally choking it out of him. She tilts her head and smiles at him before drawing a breath. It sucks the air from the room; Dean feels the rush of air as Cas seizes up. He goes stiff and slides down the wall, collapsing onto his side with his face crushed into the floor.

A matchbook, the one Dean grabbed from the front desk, falls from his pocket. Dean eyes it, clenching his jaw as he studies her movements, waiting for the opportunity to grab it. She has turned away from Cas and is focused on Sam, huddled on the opposite side of the bed. She raises her hand again. Jacob fires his last round, but she merely smiles in reply and turns her wrist. Sam goes pale, clawing at his throat.

With her attention averted, Dean snatches up the matchbook and drags one across the strike pad. It ignites—thank frigging god. He flicks it onto the bed.

The uniform goes up first. The following shriek is immediate, rattling the building to its foundation. It groans as the clerk’s ghost burns flame-orange and disappears. A crack appears in the wall and zigzags up to the ceiling, splitting it into a terrible razor-smile against the blue sky. Sunlight streams into the room as decades of Nevada dust rain down from the roof, clouding the air. The smoke twists up and out.

Rodney’s body begins to crackle. Beside the fireplace, his ghost clutches a hand to his chest.

“Thank you,” he says and closes his eyes as his soul is released.

The rattling stops and the building falls blessedly silent.

“Poor bastard,” Dean mutters. “You okay?” he asks Sam, who nods and brushes ash and dirt from his clothes. Jacob stares at the destruction with a gaping mouth.

Dean crouches down next to Cas, easing him onto his back. He’s covered with dust but breathing easily, just knocked out. Dean brushes dust from his hair and his eyelashes, easing a thumb over his cheekbone to coax him awake.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Hey, let me see those eyes.”

He’s met with two slivers of blue.

“Hey,” Cas croaks.

“You’ve had one hell of a day.”

“Yes,” Cas says and sits up. He scowls and rubs his head. Dean plucks a few larger pieces of debris from Cas’s hair. Cas reaches up to still his hand. He twines their fingers and holds them against his neck as he kisses Dean.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Yeah, anytime,” Dean whispers, blushing when he remembers Sam and Jacob are watching them.

There’s an odd scent to the air—sweet, like roses. Dean turns to Sam with a frown and asks, “Do you smell that?”

Sam sniffs. “Yeah,” he says.

“She’s gone,” Cas proclaims.

“You sure this time?” Dean asks.

Cas takes a deep breath and looks up toward the sky. He smiles.

* * *

Dean forgets about his dead battery until they’re standing around Jacob’s sedan and he realizes they’ve got no way to jump it.

“Think AAA will haul their asses out here?” he asks, scratching his neck. Cas smirks, touches a finger to the hood, and the engine purrs to life.

Jacob whistles. “That’s one handy skill.”

“Jacob, good working with you,” Dean says, extending a hand. “You run into anything like this again, you call us.”

“It was a good confidence builder,” Jacob says. “The last time I worked with a team...well, let’s say it didn’t end this way.”

“Drive safe,” Sam tells him. “Look us up if you’re ever in Kansas. You’ve got my number.”

“Will do,” Jacob promises. “Cas, good luck. Take care of that face.”

Cas gives him a wink and a thumbs-up. Jacob shakes his head and gets into his rental car, waves out the window, and peels out of the lot.

“That was a strange couple of days,” Sam says, putting their bags in the trunk. “Thought I might grab a few hours in the car. You okay to drive?”

“Fine,” Dean says. “Cas’ll keep me awake.”

“Great,” Sam says and climbs into the backseat.

Cas watches the dust settle as Jacob’s car fades from view. Dean touches his hand, humbled that he can do that now. He holds loosely to Cas’s fingers.

“You ready to go?”

“Yes,” Cas says and lays his other palm on the hood to start the car.

Dean repeatedly glances to the rear-view mirror for the first few miles, like he expects to see Rodney manifest in the exhaust fumes, but they’re the only car on the road. Though he’s physically exhausted, his eyes are wide from coffee and adrenaline. Sam is leaning against the window with his eyes closed, but Cas is sitting with his hands on his lap, staring at the passing landscape. Dean reaches out to pat his knee.

“You did good,” he says, fitting his palm over it. It’s a nice way to drive. Calming. He’d probably drink a lot less if he drove like this more often.

Cas looks down at Dean’s hand, then slides over to sit directly against his side. Dean slings an arm around his shoulders and plants a kiss on his temple.

“You guys know that Jacob’s gone, right?” Sam mutters, bunching his jacket between his neck and shoulder.

“Thought you were getting some shut-eye?” Dean snaps, but his words lack an edge. He tightens his arm around Cas’s shoulder and is rewarded with a happy sigh.

“This okay?” he asks, quieter.

“Yes,” says Cas. His tone is sweet, but he traces a winding pattern up Dean’s thigh that ends just shy of his crotch. A thrill shoots up his spine when Cas tilts his chin up and kisses along Dean’s jaw.

“There’s a pet store forty-five minutes outside of Lebanon,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over Dean’s ear.

Dean bursts out laughing. “How do you know that?” he asks.

“Sam told me.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, okay. But can we go tomorrow? I’m beat.”

“Tomorrow is fine,” Cas promises, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I’d like to go home.”

“Home,” Dean repeats. It’s the best damn thing he’s heard all day.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Le Nouveau is based on my favorite hotel in the world, the Jerome in Aspen, Colorado. I never encountered any ghosts there, but they have a fab restaurant and bar, and Aspen is my favorite city ever ever ever _let's move there_. I watched Stonehenge Apocalypse about fives times to get details for this fic (you're welcome).
> 
> [The inspiration board](https://www.pinterest.com/museaway/spn-stonehenge-crossover/) contains photos of the Jerome and of the gorgeous cars in the parking lot. And please see [this tweet](https://twitter.com/museatplay/status/590496279479906304) or [this post](http://www.museaway.com/post/116995173100/for-anyone-confused-by-my-recent-fic-on-your-left) for a side-by-side comparison of Jacob and Cas because the resemblance is uncanny. And if you'd like to reblog the fic post, it's [here](http://www.museaway.com/post/116783295020/le-nouveau-spn-stonehenge-apocalypse).


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